


standing in the open light

by CapnWinghead



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Developing Friendships, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Pining, Prom, Protective Bucky Barnes, Religious Discussion, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing a Bed, side Steve/Thor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27158716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapnWinghead/pseuds/CapnWinghead
Summary: Halloween was Bucky Barnes' favorite holiday. It had been tradition for him to attend the Kirkwood Halloween Carnival since he was a young boy. So, naturally, Steve had to ruin that by inviting Sam Wilson to come with them this year.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 53
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I haven't touched a HS AU in about 10 years. I thought I'd never write one of these again, but I got caught up thinking about what it'd be like if Bucky had known Sam around the time he lost his parents. So, this happened. It spiraled into way more story than I thought possible but I trimmed it down to this. 
> 
> I hope you all like it! 
> 
> If you'd like to know the ending ahead of time, check end notes. 
> 
> Title from Maggie Rogers "Say It" which is ridiculously perfectly suited for this fic.

Bucky really hadn’t wanted to come tonight.

Well,  _ he had _ , but he hadn’t planned on Steve bringing anyone else along. The Kirkwood Halloween Carnival is a tradition. They’d been attending since they were boys. Something they always did together, just the two of them, and Steve had messed it up inviting other people.

Now, Bucky leans against a nearby fence post, viciously biting into his cotton candy as Steve scanned the crowd. Bucky could help, he’d spotted Steve’s target ages ago, but he isn’t saying a word.

Sam Wilson stands a ways off, flashing an annoying cheery grin at a group of rowdy kids swarming the church tent. Dressed in a soft blue cape, styled like Lando Calrissian, with the boots to match. His smile actually looks genuine in the face of the ear-splitting screams and greedy, grubby fingers grabbing at the candy bowl. Setting the bowl down, Sam kneels to straighten the crown of a little princess, his eyes sweet and soft.

A scene sweet enough to give Bucky cavities – and it’s fucking annoying.

Mr. Perfect. Sam Wilson: class valedictorian, senior class president, captain of the debate team and MVP on the track and field team. Everybody knew his name and everybody loved him. Except Bucky.

Steve finally spots Sam, jogging over to meet him with a smile. He nearly disappears in the crowd, overshadowed by some smaller children with his 5’4 height. Sam beams at him, straightening up to pull Steve into a hug. Steve accepts it, the bastard. Grumbling, Bucky takes another furious bite. Steve hikes his thumb towards Bucky and Bucky chokes when Sam’s gaze lands on him.

Sam’s eyes widen in surprise as he raises a hand in a wave Bucky doesn’t return.

“Great, just fucking great,” he mutters. He throws away the last of his cotton candy, slipping his hands in his pockets as Steve and Sam near.

“Sam, this is Bucky. Bucky, this is Sam,” Steve says, a slight curl to his lips. The bastard.

“I’m aware,” Bucky says. Sam holds out a hand and Bucky simply stares at it blankly. Who shakes hands?

After some time, Sam smiles bemusedly, sliding his hands into his pockets nervously. His costume looks homemade, the blue cape appearing soft and warm to the touch. It looks good against his dark brown skin and the mustache he drew on probably would’ve been endearing on anyone else. Honestly, Bucky’s surprised Sam had been allowed to watch Star Wars. Aren’t uber Christians against science fiction or something? Or is it just science?

Either way, Bucky stopped dressing up for Halloween when he was twelve. He’d worn his usual leather jacket over a white t-shirt and ripped jeans tonight.

Steve moves through the crowd, lost in conversation with Sam about something nerdy, most likely. Something to do with questions they’d challenged at their last decathlon meeting. Of course, Sam is a part of that, too, the overachiever. Bucky follows, listening absently as he watches the crowd shift and move around them.

The carnival always draws a huge crowd on the first weekend. When Steve and he were little, Bucky’s Ma used to bring them. Mostly because his Dad was posted on a base somewhere and Steve’s Ma couldn’t’ risk catching something. Her health wasn’t too good.

To tell the truth, the carnival had always been a big thing for Bucky because it reminds him of better times. His mother’s hand solid and warm in his as they raced through the crowd trying to get to the coasters before a line formed. The flip in his stomach that made him think his funnel cake would come right back up. Rebecca’s voice, loud and whining in his ear about being left behind with their neighbor because she was too short to ride. The scent of cheap face paint and stale buttered popcorn in his nose. The excited gleam in his mother’s blue eyes when the ride took off.

It had never been the same without her, but when Bucky’s dad refused to take them the year she died, Bucky had been heartbroken. He hadn’t missed the Halloween carnival since.

When he sees where Steve’s leading them, he groans. “Stevie, really?”

“What?” he asks innocently, flashing a grin. “Scared?”

“Oh, so scared, asshole,” he replies with an eyeroll. Seconds later, he looks to Sam in reproach but Sam didn’t seem to care about the curse, watching them amusedly.

“C’mon, it’s tradition.”

“Tradition my ass. You always get in line for the thing, but conveniently find an excuse not to go in.”

‘Do not! I went a few times!”

“What, back in ’99? When you were twelve? And I made you?”

“No, I went in 2000.” Bucky stares at him blankly and Steve stands his ground as his cheeks start to flush. “I did.”

“You wanna say why?”

Swallowing, Steve looks to Sam briefly. “No.”

“Thought so. Anyway, it’s not like you missed anything. The haunted house is for babies,” he finishes, crossing his arms. Even so, he leans against the metal railing, cementing their place in line.

“Sam’s never been.”

Sam nods, rubbing the back of his neck. At Bucky’s look, he explains. “My parents aren’t big on Halloween.”

“Big surprise,” Bucky mutters.

Sam doesn’t object, adding, “Tell you a secret? It’s my favorite holiday.” Seeing Bucky’s interest, he continues, “I’ve always loved it. All the costumes and the candy and being scared. Maybe I like it so much because I was never allowed to participate. You know, unless we did something at school? It’s like forbidden, or whatever.”

“Doesn’t it go against your beliefs or something?” Bucky asks and it comes out more biting than he intended. Steve elbows him with a glare. Sighing, Bucky mutters, “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. People have questions. Can’t get upset every time someone asks me about it. Curse of being a pastor’s son.”

The line moves and they’re about to follow when a voice cuts through the quiet chatter of the crowd. “Loki! Loki, come on! This isn’t funny! Mom and Dad are going to kill me!” a voice booms.

Steve tenses, his good Samaritan senses tingly. Bucky starts to reach for his shirt when a tall blond bursts through the crowd, his white t-shirt slicked tight to his muscular chest as he moves.  _ Right _ , Bucky muses, staring up at the awning.

Steve leaves the line, his brow furrowed in concern. “Thor? What’s wrong?”

Thor Odinson, exchange student, captain of the football team and taller than most doorframes in their high school. Resting his hands on his hips, Thor comes to stand in front of Steve with a heavy sigh. “My little brother’s gone missing. Which is normally a good thing,” he says with a wry grin, “but he’s my responsibility tonight and if he gets kidnapped, I will be buried alive. But, more than that, he’s a bit of a prick but he’s my brother. I do want him back.”

“I hear you,” Steve says, touching his shoulder. “I’ll help.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “I’ll come too.”

Steve doesn’t spare him a second glance, striking Thor’s arm as he replies, “Don’t be silly. You enjoy the haunted house. It’s your favorite. I’ll be back soon.”

Cursing, Bucky watches him go.

“I hope they find him soon,” Sam says. His brow furrows in concern, lip caught between perfect straight, white teeth. Bucky’s insides twist as he forces his eyes back to the line.

“I’m sure they will.” Sam crosses his arms, his shoulders tense. Bucky keeps his tone light. “We’re going to get out of here and they’ll be stuffing their faces with funnel cake.”

When he looks back, Sam’s smiling at him, the sight making Bucky’s heart skip a beat. He quickly turns away. “You think so?” Sam asks. Bucky nods, making sure to keep some distance between them as they move towards the narrow entrance. “Is this thing actually for babies?”

The question gives Bucky pause. He’d been teasing Steve – because Steve knew this had always been his favorite part of the carnival. It’s cheesy and fake, the corn syrup “blood” takes days to wash out of his hair, but it had always been fun. Especially when he was a kid. Everything was so much  _ bigger _ then! Running around half the size of the giant mummies that tried to chase him, the witches that tried to snatch him up and the vampires and werewolves trying to take a bite out of him.

Now, it’s more just for old times’ sake than anything else. The haunted house changed a bit every year. Especially as Morita High got more involved in the production of the carnival. The haunted house is mostly jump scares, fun house mirrors and deceptively sharp dark corners. They’d added some rocking floor panels and more sound effects so, who knows, maybe it’ll be fun this year?

“Not really,” he replies, finding Sam watching him warily. Is he actually scared? “It’s mostly jump scares.”

“Okay,” Sam says as they become the next ones to enter. “Okay, okay, okay,” he mutters.

“Why you doin’ this if it scares you?”

“That’s part of the fun, right?” he asks honestly. And having all that bright focus levelled on him makes his stomach turn over like he just made the loop on the Destroyer.

Sam’s still waiting, and Bucky finds himself nodding jerkily. “Should be. C’mon.”

The attendant lets them inside with a reminder to keep their hands to themselves. Bucky briefly wonders if it’s a dig at him or a genuine ask. A few years ago, they had some sort of rotating circular saw that sawed through a corn syrup filled body and sprayed blood on the guests. That had been pretty fucking cool.

Now, Sam follows the rules, staying close to Bucky. Bucky can feel his heat, having removed his own leather jacket hours ago. There’s a bit of a breeze in the haunted house and that’s the only reason he hangs back, letting Sam’s warmth seep into his skin. Swallowing, he moves slowly through the dimly lit path.

The music quiets, an eerie, artificial silence setting his nerves on edge. They turn a corner and a witch’s cackle bursts through the speakers, starling Sam. Laughing nervously, he touches his chest as Bucky looks back at him. In the green light, his teeth glow white as he smiles.

“Okay, okay, that’s not too bad.”

A few fans blow mist through the air, dry ice floating vapor as they move forward. Bucky’s heavy boot falls on a creaking floor panel and Sam gasps, his breath quickening as they freeze. Bucky takes a step forward and a cardboard werewolf slides out from an insert in the wall. Sam snags Bucky’s shirt around his waist, as if holding him back. Endeared, Bucky waits, biting down a laugh and patting Sam’s hand after some time.

“All clear.”

“Sorry,” Sam replies breathily, but he stays close as they move through.

“S’ok.”

It feels… different going through the exhibit with Sam at his back. He knows in the back of his mind that the whole thing’s fake and he’s literally being led in circles in a maze set up by his classmates. He knows that mentally, but there’s a part of him that hangs back and lets Sam grab his shirt. A part of him that feels the need to keep telling Sam how the thing works so he doesn’t feel stupid when the effects work.

Sam’s kind of adorable when he’s scared.

Now, he whispers, “That’s just a mirror trick. They had to special order that.”

They round the corner and a towering shape shot forward. Startled, Bucky throws a punch, his knuckles cracking against something fleshy.

“Ow, fuck, dude!” a voice shouts.

Heart pounding, Bucky curses, cradling his hand as he starts to apologize. “Shit, man, I’m sorry. Reflex.” He rushes forward to help and smashes into a false wall, his nose crunching. His mouth floods with warm blood and he jumps when a hand gently touches his back.

“Come on,” Sam says, leading him outside. “That sounded bad.”

Once outside, the night air cools the blood on Bucky’s chin. Grimacing, he lets Sam lead him over to a nearby eating area. “Stay here. I’ll grab a first aid kit.”

Bucky manages to nod, the taste of iron in the back of his throat as his stomach turns.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Bucky looks over to find Steve standing near the table, an ice cream cone in hand. Thor stood beside him, happily lapping away at his vanilla cone as a small boy with dark hair stands between them. He eyes Bucky in a strangely sinister manner as he spoons mint chocolate chip ice cream into his mouth.

“Punched a kid,” Bucky mutters.

“He deserve it?” Steve asks as a woman with long dark hair appears.

She’s drop dead gorgeous, so much so that even Bucky notices. With bright green eyes, an intimidating disinterested expression, clad in ripped black jeans, combat boots and a leather jacket. “There you are, you little gremlin. Come on.” She hauls the small boy up into her arms and leaves in a huff.

“Did – did your brother just get kidnapped?” Steve asks, eyes wide as Thor continues eating his ice cream.

“Again?” Bucky asks.

Thor looked to them, unconcerned. “Sister. Hela.” He glances at his watch. “Looks like I have the rest of the night to myself.”

“Really?” Steve asks with interest and Bucky’s not as put out as he should be. Even though he’d spent less than half an hour with his best friend the entire night. Steve looks to him and Bucky nods, waving him off. “You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, go. I’m not going to be doing much looking like this,” he replies, gesturing to his bloodstained shirt. Steve hesitates and it takes a stern glare for him to leave. Bucky rests his chin in hand, watching as Steve gradually moves in closer to Thor, his cheeks flushing when one of those freakishly big arms lands on Steve’s shoulders, pulling him in.

Shaking his head, he hides a smile as Sam reappears with what looks like a portable ambulance in his arms. He offers a sheepish smile as he sets a monstrous first aid kit down on the picnic table beside Bucky. “Sorry, the small kits just had band aids.”

“’m fine,” Bucky mumbles, pulling his hand away as more blood streams from his nose. “Jesus.”

“Yeah, you look fine,” Sam says sarcastically, slapping on some gloves. He reaches into the kit for some gauze before moving in closer, his eyes firm and focused. He waits, nodding to Bucky expectantly.

Sighing, Bucky reluctantly moves his hand. Sam sweeps in quickly, blocking the bleed. “Now, lean forward. You don’t want blood in your throat.”

Bucky grumbles, but follows the instructions. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“I did an internship with some EMTs.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “’course you did.”

It’s quiet, save for the sounds of children screaming in the distance. There’s a group of dads chugging beers at the table near them, most certainly purchased and brought into the carnival. A group of younger girls hover at the hot dog stand nearby and doing the worst job pretending like they aren’t staring.

When Bucky returns to Sam, Sam is staring at him. “What?”

“You don’t like me, do you?” It’s a simple question. He doesn’t sound particularly bothered by it. He starts to clean up the kit. “Just something I noticed. Every time I hang out with Steve at school or we have an event, if you do come, you don’t talk to me.”

Pausing, Bucky eyes the slight tension in his shoulders, the tightness of his face. “I don’t like very many people.”

Sam closes the kit, meeting his eyes warily. “Something I did?”

God help him, he actually looks concerned. “Not exactly.” Sam’s brow furrows and Bucky sits up straighter, pulling the gauze away once it appeared he’d finally stopped bleeding. “It’s not you, it’s who you are.” Sam’s face falls, eyes soft with hurt and Bucky’s stomach twists, realizing how that sounds. “Not – not  _ who _ you are, but who your family is.”

“O-okay,” Sam says shakily, hugging himself.

Biting his tongue, Bucky figures it better to just get it over with. “I’m sure you’re a nice guy. Steve thinks so, his Ma thinks so, everything I hear about you, you’d think the sun literally shines outta your ass. But, it’s different for them. You go to church like every day, your dad’s a freaking pastor and you’re part of the Athletes for Jesus thing or whatever. I’m gay, Sam. I’m not changing and I don’t want to. Your whole religion thing… they’re not too good with that.”

Bucky licks his lips, running a hand through his hair. He starts to say more but he stops – Sam looks sick. “I knew that, you know? About you,” he explains awkwardly. “Most people know that about you.”

Bucky bits down a laugh, turning his head; it really isn’t funny. “Yeah, well, getting outed in eighth grade’ll do that.”

Sam climbs up on the table beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. “Doesn’t sound like it makes it easy to meet people who don’t already have opinions about you.”

Bucky looks to him incredulously, taking in the teasing glint in Sam’s eye. “You trying to ‘relate’ to me here?”

“Not really, no. I just,” Sam chews on his lip, his lashes fluttering as he scans Bucky’s face curiously. “I didn’t have one. An opinion, I mean. I knew you didn’t like me, but if I decided not to like you in return, it’d be petty, wouldn’t it?”

Bucky flashes a grin. “I’m a big fan of petty.”

Sam smiles back, the sight leaving Bucky warm in return. “It has its moments.” He falls quiet, his head cocked to the side. “I don’t hate you or people like you or whatever you think. I get why you avoid me. I completely get that.” He looks out at the carnival, his face frustratingly distracting in profile, Bucky notes in annoyance. The corner of Sam’s mouth turns up after some time. “I’m not part of Athletes for Jesus, by the way,” he says with a soft laugh, bumping Bucky’s shoulder.

“You’re not?” Bucky asks, knocking into him, drawing Sam’s gaze.

“That’s not a thing. You can start it, though.” He scratched at his brow. “Makes it sound like we run marathons in sandals.”

“And gowns.”

“And there’s a part where you have to run across a lake or something.”

“Turn water into wine.”

“Sounds pretty intense,” Sam remarks, earning a laugh. “I don’t think I could hack it.”

Bucky studies him quietly, answering honestly. “I bet you could.” He pushes a lock of hair behind his ear. “You’re good at everything you do.”

Sam’s eyes widen and his smile softens into something gentle, almost shy. Bucky ignores the nervous flip in his stomach, watching as Sam shakes his head. “I’m not, but I try.” His eyes fall to his hands, wringing them a bit. “My whole life, I’ve had to be great to prove I earned my place. Most people think the good grades and awards I got were just handed to me because I’m black.”

“Really? That fucking sucks.” Sam looks to him, his mouth twitching and Bucky curses, “Shit, sorry.”

Sam laughs softly, “It’s okay. I won’t turn to stone if I hear ‘no no words’.”

“Good to know,” Bucky says with a grin.

“But you know what? I don’t really care what they think. I used to, but I’m not going to be here for much longer.” He sits up straighter, adding, “I’m going to school to be a social worker.”

It slips out before Bucky can hold it back. “Makes sense. You’re good with people.”

Sam brightens. “You think so?” Bucky nods, his face warming. Sam peeks up at him, squinting a bit as he asks, “That mean I won you over?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, biting down a smile. “No, it doesn’t.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Sam grinned cheerily, “You punched a harmless ghost for me.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t look harmless.” At Sam’s widening grin, he sighed. “I busted my nose to take you to a haunted house.”

“My hero,” Sam praises, climbing off the table. “I’ll take this back.”

Bucky watches him go, hiding a smile behind his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

If asked, Sam would say they became friends after the Halloween carnival.

He’d be wrong.

Bucky is still wary.

Sam has lots of friends, but he keeps choosing to spend his lunch with Steve and Bucky at their little uneven table in the back of the lunchroom. Even on days when they eat outside on the front steps, Sam drops down next to them with his perfectly balanced lunch he brought from home, full of fruits and veg. Offering Steve and Bucky his mom’s homemade cookies and whatever other treats she’d made. Sometimes he brings Natasha Romanoff or Sharon Carter with him, but he usually comes alone.

He always asks about Bucky.

About his family, until that conversation dried out quicker than a well in the desert. About school, until that conversation quickly ran stale. About what Bucky does after school, his favorite music, the movies he watches. Bucky usually gives one-word answers and he never speaks without being spoken to. He leaves most lunch periods with little red marks on his sides from all of Steve’s elbowing.

When the debate team spends a day training for their competition in D.C., Bucky and Steve finally have a lunch period to themselves. Steve spends the first half of it glaring at Bucky over his milk carton. He eyes Bucky for a long time, head cocked to the side, that stubborn furrow in his brow.

Finally, Bucky drops his fork with a biting “What?”

“You know what,” Steve replies, dropping his milk carton. “Sam tries really hard with you.”

“I didn’t ask him to.”

“No, but he does it anyway because he’s a nice guy.” Steve pushes his tray forward, eyes firm. “And he actually gives a shit what you think about him.”

Bucky’s eyes fall to his tray. “You think I don’t know that?” he asks after some time.

He looks up to find Steve studying him, his eyes softening minutely as he asks, “This have anything to do with what happened freshman year?”

Covering his face, Bucky mutters, “Here we go.”

“You’ve had a thing for the guy ever since.”

Freshman year had been hard on Bucky. After being outed, after a summer spent in military school, walking into high school his very first day and finding the word “fag” carved into his locker hadn’t made it any easier. However, he’d cared less about that and more about the fact that he’d never been the best student and high school was only meant to be harder.

Mr. Russo had a habit of picking one English Lit student to torture every year. Bucky’s freshman year, Russo had entertained picking between three students for his favorite punching bag and had been making their lives hell. Tearing apart their papers, mocking their stutters when they dared speak up in class and making them scapegoats when he made last minute assignments. He was a bully, plain and simple. But a bully with a paycheck from the school, so he wasn’t going anywhere.

Bucky did his best to stay off his radar; he was doing his best to go unnoticed by everyone at the time. Sat in the back of the class, did his work on time and did just enough not to get singled out. Didn’t matter.

One day, Russo goes on a rampage asking who did the reading for Catcher in the Rye. It had been Bucky’s first week back after losing his father. He’d been exhausted and not feeling that cheery to begin with. Of course, that was the day Russo zeroed in on him and he just snapped. Said that he’d done the reading and it was a shit book. He didn’t understand what was supposed to be so great about it and Caulfield was an asshole. Russo’s face turned an interesting shade of red that would’ve been funny if he hadn’t slammed his hands down on Bucky’s desk and called him an idiot. A lazy idiot that was wasting time he should’ve spent in a trade school.

Bucky just froze.

Russo was an asshole, but he’d gone to enough school to know what he was talking about, right? And it wasn’t as if he wasn’t saying the kinds of things Bucky’s father used to say to him all the time. Except Bucky had known how to fight back then. Sitting there, listening to Russo, all the words got stuck in his throat. He just sat there until someone spoke up.

From the front row, Sam Wilson slammed his book down on his desk and told Mr. Russo to shut up. Not kindly, not indirectly; he actually stood up and told Russo to shut up before he gave another reason for the administration to fire him. And if he couldn’t handle a difference in opinion, he shouldn’t be teaching. And because Sam Wilson was who he was, everyone listened to him.

Class ending after the longest silence of Bucky’s life. Russo left the room in a huff and never returned. When the bell rung, Bucky stood up, his heart in his mouth. He was going to say thank you, he’d wanted to say thank you, but the idea of doing it in front of everyone else was fucking terrifying. He waited until the class trickled out, only Sam gathered his things and left the room with Sharon Carter.

Bucky never mustered the courage.

Steve isn’t exactly wrong – Bucky’s had a thing for Sam from that day on, but not the way Steve thinks. Bucky isn’t pining quietly after him and writing “Mr. James Wilson” all over his notebooks. He’s not in love with Sam as much as Sam makes him remember what it felt like to be powerless, sat in the back of a classroom and wishing someone, anyone, would help him. The way he’d felt when his mother died, after his father sent his sister away, after military school, after his father died.

Only, Sam had come to his rescue after years of having to save himself.

What did it matter that he smiled absently when he saw their decathlon team won another trophy or Sam came in first at the last track meet? What did it matter that Bucky never gave one solitary fuck about the class presidency but he actually voted when Sam was in the running? What did it matter that he sometimes thought the worst thing about Sam was how impossible it is to hate him?

They don’t hang in the same circles, they never spoke before and they don’t like the same things. Before the carnival, Bucky had it in his head that he’d graduate without ever speaking to Sam Wilson.

And now here he is, every single day trying too hard to get Bucky to like him. And succeeding only in fucking with Bucky’s head.

“All I’m saying is, maybe don’t make everything so hard for yourself,” Steve said gently, drawing Bucky’s gaze. “He’s a great guy. He’s a great friend.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, his chest tightening before he curses, tossing his napkins and silverware on his tray and grabbing his bag. He leaves the lunchroom as fast as his feet will carry him.

Sam’s not the problem. Bucky knows he’s a great guy. He’s  _ the _ great guy. Mr. Perfect. Never does anything wrong, sticks up for the outcasts, makes nice with the only person in this school not interested in being his friend. He’s too damn good.

He’ll realize in time: there’s nothing Bucky can give him.

* * *

The day of the debate competition, Bucky and Steve run into Sam outside the school. Literally.

Steve’s sketchbook goes flying in an arc and Sam saves it from landing in a puddle. Steve treats him with a grateful smile. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem. I’m sure I saved something that’ll be worth a fortune someday. Think of me when you’re making millions.”

“Of course,” Steve said, smile widening. He hitches his backpack up higher on his shoulder, taking in Sam’s duffle bag. “You heading out?”

Sam nods, shifting his weight a bit and chewing on his lip. Bucky watches silently, pretty sure he’d never seen Sam nervous before. Mr. Perfect actually worries about competitions? “We’re about to get on the bus. Sharon likes to do about three headcounts before we go anywhere,” he said with a fond smile.

“Yeah, I, uh, I remember that,” Steve replies. Things between Steve and Sharon had been a little strained since their break up. Bucky’s just glad they’re still friends. He doesn’t have Sharon’s stamina in going toe to toe with Steve on one of his nerdy debates about foreign policy or American history. “I’ll just have a quick word with her.”

Bucky watches Steve jog towards the bus with a shake of the head. He looks over to find Sam doing the same, a knowing look in his eye. Finally, he returns to Bucky who’s wiping his clammy hands on his jeans. He nods when he meets Sam’s eyes, pushing his hair behind his ears.

“Uh, well, good luck, I guess,” Bucky mutters, his face burning at the amused gleam in Sam’s eyes. Brightening, Sam grins and it’s like watching the sun rise. His entire face lights up, his eyes soft and warm as they hold Bucky’s. In return, Bucky feels the warmth of it like a spark in his chest, his heart beating faster.

“Thanks,” he replies, biting on his lip as he averts his gaze almost shyly. As if Sam Wilson ever felt shy. He steps back, hiking his thumb over his shoulder. “Well, I better go. Wouldn’t want to be the reason we’re late.” He bites down on another smile before he finally turns to leave.

Bucky watches him go, managing to convince himself that the strange twinge in his chest is just annoyance at Steve once again conspiring to leave him and Sam alone together.

* * *

The debate team wins their competition. Mostly due to Sam, the way everyone tells it.

The victory is quickly overshadowed.

By Saturday night, everyone knew the story: Pastor Paul Wilson had been killed during a mugging a few blocks from the church. If Darlene hadn’t been picking up Sam from the school, she might’ve been with him. Sam heard the news moments after they put the trophy in the trophy case.

Sam misses a week of school.

People sign cards, send flowers, bring food to the church. Most of it gets donated; Sam isn’t eating much by the sound of it.

Bucky feels strangely helpless.

After Steve’s lecture, he’d intended to try harder to be nicer to Sam. Or, at the very least, to be less combative when Sam was simply trying to make conversation. Bucky heard the news about Sam’s father from Steve’s mother that night. He’d been stunned. Sam’s dad was somewhat of a local hero; a prominent figure in their community. Everyone loved him, similar to the way they revered Sam at school. It seemed impossible that something so horrible could happen to someone so loved.

Bucky sits down at lunch Friday, noting that a week without Sam had been harder than he would have thought. A raggedy, heavy backpack slams down on the table as Steve sits down across from him with a curse.

“What’s up with you?” Bucky asks.

Steve runs a frustrated hand over his head. “So fucking fake,” he mutters.

“What?”

Steve levels with him, his eyes hard. “These people, Sam’s  _ friends _ , they all act like they care about him, but none of them have even gone to check on him. Sharon’s been over there a lot and Natasha went to the service with him, but none of these other people have even bothered to call.” He lets out a slow breath, shaking himself a bit. “Will you go with me? This afternoon?”

Bucky’s at a loss. He honestly doubts Sam will want him there. They’re not exactly close. Surely, Steve’s thought about that. Maybe he just doesn’t want to go alone. Maybe he needs the support. Of course, Bucky would give him that.

When Bucky’s father passed, Sarah Rogers took him in. After all, Steve and Bucky had practically grown up as brothers. He took the room across from Steve and he’d been there ever since. At the start, he certainly wasn’t easy to deal with. He’d been such an angry kid; he got in a lot of fights and nearly got suspended. Skipped so many days of class that he nearly flunked out. It had been enough losing his mom, but seeing Rebecca shipped away to boarding school and then losing his father had just made Bucky realize how easy it would be to lose everyone in his life.

Bucky doesn’t bother getting attached to anyone new these days.

Now, Steve needs him and there was no way Bucky would turn him down.

Sam lives in a small house a little ways away from the city.

As Bucky pulls up to the curb on his bike, he wonders briefly how Sam made it to school every day. It’s a bit of a drive. Considering how many after school activities Sam’s involved in, he must spend most of his time on the road.

Steve climbs off the back of his bike, reaching into his backpack to pull out a Tupperware container. At Bucky’s face, he shakes it a bit. “My Ma made popovers. Figured we shouldn’t come empty handed. Hell, we’re lucky she didn’t come with.”

“She loved Sam’s father,” Bucky replies, pulling off his helmet. He runs a hand through his hair lazily.

It’s a nice house. Quaint, crisp green grass cut neatly, a little white picket fence separating it from the curb. When Steve rings the doorbell, Bucky comes face to face with a cross on the door. Swallowing, he slides his hands in his pockets.

Sharon opens the door, smiling warmly upon seeing them. She gestures for them to come in, peeking at Steve’s offering. “Are those popovers? Mrs. Wilson’s going to love those.”

“My Ma made them, so they’re edible,” Steve replies with a smile.

They follow her through the foyer to the dining room where the table was overladen with food and desserts. There’s no sign anyone had sat there to eat recently. It had been over a week. Are they eating at all?

“Do the police know anything?” Steve asks, following Sharon into the kitchen.

Bucky hangs back in the dining room, studying the walls.

They’re lined with pictures, some going back to the days of black and white portraits. His eyes catch on a picture of Sam’s mom and dad on their wedding day with shoulder pads and coiffed hair straight out of the 80s. Mr. Wilson is wearing some sort of naval uniform and the smile on Mrs. Wilson’s face is painfully reminiscent of Sam’s. There’s a picture of Sam as a baby, his father holding securely onto his hands as Sam takes a step. Bucky’s chest tightens at the pride on Mr. Wilson’s face. There are pictures of Sam and his father fishing, at the church, at a school function, at the movies. There are more pictures of Sam and his father than several albums could ever hold.

“My mom thought we’d need them someday. She kept anything she could find of her parents and their parents and so on,” a voice says mutedly.

Bucky startles, turning around to find Sam standing beside him. Dressed in a hoodie and jeans, his face drawn, dark shadows beneath his eyes. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in days. It’s an unsettling realization that he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sam without a smile on his face.

Sam eyes the wall as he swallows, adding, “Kind of hate looking at them now.”

Bucky’s throat dries out as he rasps, “I get that.” Sam hugs himself, leaning against the doorjamb as he studies his feet. Bucky searches for something to say. “How – how are you doing?” Sam blinks at him and Bucky’s stomach twists immediately. “Don’t answer that. I’m an idiot.”

Sam shakes his head, turning his back to the photos. “You’re not. I just don’t know how to answer. I really don’t know.”

Bucky nods, taking in the defeated slope of Sam’s shoulders. Bucky wants to help, but he doesn’t know how. His eyes fall on the table once more. “Are you hungry?” Sam looks up. “All this food… doesn’t look like you’ve eaten any of it.”

“Not hungry. I try to make sure my mom eats.” He runs a hand over his face. “I think she’s throwing herself into work at the church so she doesn’t have time to think about it. I know she’s worried about me, but I just… I don’t know. You didn’t come here to hear me whine,” he says, offering a weak smile.

He means it as an out, he means it as a joke, but the words make Bucky’s insides ice over. As long as he’s known Sam, he’s always been Mr. Perfect, Mr. Brightside. Always with a smile on his face and always with something funny to say. He cheers most people up just being there. Now, Bucky’s starting to wonder if Sam does that because he doesn’t think anyone wants anything else from him. The bad stuff, the not so nice stuff, the stuff that comes out when you don’t have it in you to be cheerful.

“Steve wanted to come to see how you’re doing and I came with him,” he says. He doesn’t say that it hadn’t initially planned to come. Sam’s smile wanes easily, having never been genuine to begin with. “Now, are you hungry?” he asks again.

Sam shakes his head. “I can’t think about food.”

“You gotta eat. When’s the last time you ate?”

“Dunno. Yesterday, I think. Nat practically force fed me.”

_ Good _ , Bucky muses. “Okay,” he says, nodding to himself. He slips his jacket off and sets it on the back of a chair. Then, he steers Sam into the living room. There are less pictures here; he’ll make do with the crosses. “Sit down. I’ll be right back.”

Sharon and Steve quiet when he enters the kitchen. He fixes a plate of what looks like mac and cheese and grabs a few scoops of something green. He hopes it’s good. They stare at him and he pointedly avoids looking at them as he watches the plate rotate in the microwave. When he sets it down in front of Sam on the coffee table, Sam blinks at him.

Bucky sits down next to him, grabbing a fork “We’ll do it together, okay?”

* * *

Bucky finds himself thinking about Sam a lot over the weekend.

Sitting at the dinner table, watching TV, sketching, whatever he did, his mind kept wandering back to Sam. He can’t rid himself of the image of Sam sitting in that room trying to avoid the pictures, wandering that empty house alone. He tells himself he’s just trying to make up for being such a dick to Sam from the get go, but seeing that pained look on Sam’s face reminded him of the time after his mother passed. Of the silence that followed and how hard it had been to go through the motions for Rebecca when his father could hardly get out of bed.

He makes it through most of Sunday morning before he gives in. Grabs his jacket and takes his bike over to Sam’s place.

When he arrives, he finds the garage door up and Sam moving around inside. He’s digging through a set of boxes as Bucky heads up the driveway. When he nears, he finds Sam staring at a catcher’s mitt, his face drawn. Bucky knocks on a wooden beam, startling Sam.

He stares at Bucky blankly for a few seconds before he straightens up, offering a small smile. It’s nowhere near as bright as it’d been in the past, but it’s something. “Hey,” Bucky greets, sliding his hands into his pockets as he comes to stand beside him. “Came to see how you’re doing.”

Sam nodded, averting his gaze. He traces the laces of the mitt as he says, “A little better, I guess. I ate breakfast, in case you were coming to scold me,” he says, looking up with a soft laugh.

“That’s good. Although, I’m not really that good at scolding. That’s Steve’s thing.”

“Really?”

Bucky nods, ducking down to peek into one of the boxes. “He’s pretty damn good at it.” There’s a mix of trophies and ribbons in the box along with a plaque of some sort. He can’t read the labels but he’s sure they’re Sam’s. “What’s all this?”

Sam scratched at his brow, his shoulders tensing. “Going through some of my dad’s stuff. Some of it we’re giving away but, stuff like this, trophies, baseballs, records… I don’t feel right getting rid of it. You know, they were  _ him _ .”

Bucky carefully pulled out a picture of Sam’s dad crossing a finish line, his arms outstretched. “He ran track, too? I never thought of him that way.” He laughed, looking to Sam. “But yeah, he was our age at some point.”

Sam smiled softly, taking the picture. “I know, it’s weird for me, too. He kept this stuff out here. I don’t know why. It’s not like my mom didn’t put all my awards in my room.”

“Maybe he didn’t want you to feel pressured? In case you didn’t turn out to be some amazing athlete.” He carefully pulled out an old baseball, turning it over in his hands.

“Yeah, maybe. He ran track, he played basketball football but baseball was his thing,” Sam explained. “He loved it. It was the only sport he really followed. Of course, I thought it was boring. I remember he tried to get me to do a season of Little League but I just… wasn’t into it.”

“Don’t let Steve hear you say that,” he warns. There’s a hitched breath and Bucky looks up to find Sam holding himself tight, his lips pressed tight together, his eyes welling up. Bucky climbs to his feet, touching Sam’s arm as he lowers his head. “Hey,” he starts.

Sam’s shaking, his fingers digging into his arms and Bucky’s helpless, wishing he’d thought to ask Steve or even Sharon to come along. Someone that wouldn’t stand here being completely useless.

Sam wipes at his face with a ragged, “I’m sorry,” and Bucky finally reaches out, pulling Sam into his arms.

Sam stiffens at first, his arms locked between them which is awkward more than comforting, most likely. Bucky tenses, about to pull back and explain that he’s just the worst at trying to comfort anyone. Then Sam leans into it, resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder, his breath warm against Bucky’s neck. He shivers a bit, holding Sam more firmly. It’s quiet, his heart pounding in his ears as he stands there just holding Sam. He can’t see his face, he can’t tell if this is helping at all.

After some time, Sam’s breathing calms. He shifts in Bucky’s grip and Bucky reluctantly let’s go. Sam wipes at his face, flashing a shy smile as he steps back. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Now, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He slides them into his pockets, eying Sam carefully. “You want me to go?”

“No! No,” Sam says more softly. “I’m glad you came over. It was really nice.”

The sincerity sends a nervous flutter through his stomach. “Most people don’t think I’m nice.”

“I’m not most people.” His eyes fall to the boxes again. “I wanted to get this done today. I’ve been putting it off the past few days. I used to be good about schedules.”

The tightness in his face draws the words out. “Screw it. There’s no time table. It can wait.” Sam looks to him with wide eyes and Bucky licks his lips, reaching out. “It can wait. Let’s take a walk. I’ve never been around the suburbs. They look dangerous and exciting,” he muses. 

Sam’s neighborhood is like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, except there are actually people of color around. Few neighbors are hanging around outside, but the few that are greet Sam warmly. He smiles back as best he can and Bucky quickly ushers him away when he can’t.

“I sent Sharon away yesterday,” Sam says, his eyes on his feet. “She’s been so great, but I feel bad having her around. I’m not great company right now.”

“You know she doesn’t care about that, right?”

Sam nods, holding himself tightly. “I still feel bad.”

Bucky studies him for a bit, trying to choose his words kindly, which isn’t something he does very often. “You don’t have to be together all the time. Especially right now.” Sam looks to him, doubtful. “You’re allowed to be a mess.”

Chewing on his lip, Sam hesitates for a moment before he speaks. “It sounds really superficial, but I like that people like being around me. Not because it makes me popular, but because I like making other people happy.” He stares out at the path ahead of them, his voice soft. “My dad used to say this thing, ‘you only get so many summers’. Said it year-round, which was confusing,” he adds and Bucky laughs, earning a smile, “but it’s pretty clear. You make the most of the time you’re given. However short. I don’t want to waste it being sad.”

“I get that, and I hate to say it, but… you don’t really get a choice,” he says, drawing Sam’s gaze. “How you feel right now is how you feel. You shouldn’t feel guilty if you have to take some time. Take the time.”

Sam holds his gaze, his eyes guarded. Finally, he nods, averting his gaze as they walk. “What was your dad like? You lost him after you started high school, right?”

Bucky pushed past the wrench in his stomach, keeping his voice light. “He was tough. Very strict. Army guy. He was gone a lot.” Sam nods, waiting for him to continue. It sets Bucky back for a moment; it had been a long time since anyone outside of Steve had asked him about his father and actually seemed to listen. “He didn’t really do ‘dad things’.”

“What do you mean?”

“We never went to the park to toss a ball around and he never taught me how to change the oil in a car.”

“I don’t think I can do that, either,” Sam muses and the corner of Bucky’s mouth turns up.

“I can now. I taught myself,” he says, scratching at his brow. “But, he was just a hard man to know. I never knew what he liked about me; I only knew what he tried to fix.” His voice grew rough as he continued, “I couldn’t do anything right and Rebecca, she was perfect. He sent her away to keep her from turning out like me.”

“Rebecca?”

“My sister,” he rasps, feeling Sam’s eyes on him as he walks ahead.

* * *

Sam misses another week of school. They send coursework home for him.

While his absence means Bucky spends the days worried about him, he’s really just happy Sam’s taking the time. He wouldn’t put it past him to show up Monday morning with a fake smile on his face just to make others stop worrying about him. He’s weird that way.

Bucky visits as much as he can, to Steve’s surprise. Drops by after school, usually with coursework for Sam. Sometimes he sees Sharon or Nat there, but mostly it’s just him and Sam. He doesn’t mind.

He never sees Darlene. She’s still spending most of her time at church.

Friday afternoon, he follows Sam up to his room. It’s freakishly neat, but of course it is. Sam had said cleaning was the only thing he could bring himself to do with his free time.

Bucky sits on the floor beside him at the foot of the bed. There’s an academic decathlon trophy staring down at him. “You could go out, you know?”

“Where?” Sam asks, propping his knees up. “Everybody wants to ask me how I’m feeling.”

“That is what people tend to do when they care about you,” Bucky says, earning a light glare. “I’ve heard they also do weird things like offer words of support and hugs.”

“Hugs?” Sam asks with a frown on his face.

“Really weird thing where they squeeze you with their body,” he replies, earning a laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m just bad with emotions and shit.” At Sam’s expression, he adds, “Sorry.”

“No, I’m just,” Sam shakes his head, studying him quietly. “You’re really not. You’ve been great with me.”

The words warm him as much as they confuse him. “Really?”

“Really,” Sam says, his eyes soft.

Bucky doesn’t really know how to handle that look on his face. Swallowing, he leans back against the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Sam averts his gaze. “Most days I don’t know… but lately, I’ve just been angry.”

“That’s understandable.” Last Bucky had heard, they still didn’t know anything about who’d attacked Sam’s father.

“It’s not,” Sam says, picking at a thread on his jeans. “I’m mad at the church.”

That gives Bucky pause. “What?”

It takes a moment for Sam to gather the words. “It’s like this: we believe in celebrating the dead and being thankful when someone leaves this earth, because they’re going to heaven.”

Bucky nods – sounds like what he remembers from Sunday school.

Sam’s mouth twists, his voice thick. “Only, it feels like there’s no in between.” His breath quickens, his eyes welling up as they meet Bucky’s. “I feel like I just lost my father. I feel like that was literally hours ago, and everyone’s laughing and singing and I just want them to stop. I can’t feel that right now and that means I can’t be there and I think he’d want me there.”

His eyes spill over and, for once, Bucky doesn’t think. He pulls Sam into his arms, his arm curling around Sam’s back as he presses his wet face into Bucky’s neck, shaking. Sam’s fingers twist in his shirt, pulling tight as Bucky rubs his back, cursing himself for the fact that he doesn’t have anything wise to say. Once again, he’s the worst person to be here trying to help.

When Sam pulls back, his eyes are wet, a tear rolling down his cheek. He wipes at his face, nodding at the questioning look on Bucky’s face.

They sit there in the quiet for a moment.

When Sam reaches for him, his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, Bucky allows it, figuring Sam’s going in for a hug. When Sam presses their lips together, it takes almost a full minute for Bucky to realize what’s happening. Sam’s lips are unbelievably soft and wet, firm enough that the intent is clear. But he’s trembling; his hands are shaking.

He doesn’t want this.

Stomach twisting, Bucky pulls back, turning his face as Sam’s hands fall away. “Don’t do that.”

A quiet rustling, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t just,” Bucky shakes his head, staring at the floor. “Just don’t do that, okay?”

When he finds it in him to look back at Sam, Sam nods, his eyes wide and worried. “Okay.”

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there's scene where someone attempts to take advantage of a drunk person in this chapter.

When Sam officially returns to school, he’s never the same.

He goes from active and responsive to withdrawn. He hardly ever speaks, in class or out of it. He never really smiles. Steve and Sharon are worried and don’t bother hiding it. From what Bucky’s able to glean, their attempts at interventions go unheard. Sam isn’t rude, he simply doesn’t seem to care.

About anything.

Bucky knows what that feels like. Recognized the difference between being combative and simply retreating. Hell, he’d done the latter his entire life. It’s home for him; but it isn’t for Sam. It’s hard to watch someone so bright hide themselves away, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t understand it.

None of their friends understand – not completely. Steve had lost his father, but he’d never known the guy. Sharon had lost relatives, but never a parent. Bucky isn’t entirely sure what Natasha’s situation is, but nobody knows.

Bucky had lost his parents. He’d lost a family. He understands in a way that nobody else really can.

Which makes him strangely well equipped to help Sam – but after their kiss, he’d kept his distance. He still visits, but only when Steve or Sharon are there as buffers. He and Sam haven’t talked about the kiss. Instead, it hangs there in the marked space between them and the careful way Bucky avoids looking Sam in the eye these days.

He knows Sam is probably drowning in guilt. As much as he’d come to learn about Sam the past few weeks, he knows guilt is Sam’s home. He wallows in it: the guilt over not doing things he’s supposed to do, every time he’d ever disappointed his father, not properly taking care of his mother, not being able to go back to the church, not being able to snap back into the friendly guy that people expect him to be. There’s no way he’s not guilting himself over a moment of weakness.

And that’s all it was: he’d been upset and Bucky was there. He’s sure that, if it had been Steve or Sharon, Sam would’ve kissed them instead. Bucky would be lying if he said he hadn’t hooked up with the wrong person out of a misguided way to avoid his grief.

He’s not avoiding Sam because he wants Sam to feel guilty. He’s avoiding Sam because hearing Sam’s apologies would just worsen the ache in Bucky’s chest. Sam very much didn’t want that kiss.

But Bucky did.

In that brief window, after realizing what was happening and before realizing Sam didn’t want it, he’d wanted to kiss Sam. If he’s being honest, he’d wanted to kiss Sam before that. He’d wanted to kiss Sam before he left for the debate competition. He’d wanted to kiss Sam when he’d been covered in blood and sitting on a picnic table at the Halloween carnival. Hell, he wants to kiss Sam _now_.

And he wants to be a better person, he wants to be the kind of guy that would deserve someone like Sam and just get over himself and get back to taking care of him. But he can’t because the thought of Sam taking him aside to apologize again and explain in detail just how much of a mistake it was tightens the knot in Bucky’s stomach.

So, yeah, he’s being a selfish prick.

* * *

On Saturday night, he heads out to a bar. He doesn’t frequent them often, but he’s tired of being inside avoiding Steve’s questions and he can’t go to Sam’s. He wants a drink and he knows a place where they won’t look too hard at his I.D.

He’s half way through a beer when he catches sight of a familiar letterman jacket. He moves over to get a better look, curious about what kind of idiot had the gall to dare a bouncer to toss him out for being underage. Instead, it’s a sight that makes his stomach turn.

It’s Sam.

Sam Wilson, very clearly pressed lazily against a wall while some guy, some _grown man_ groped at him. Consensual or not, the guy’s twice Sam’s age and Sam doesn’t look into it at all. He’s pushing at the guy as best he can and trying to talk his way out of it.

Bucky slams his glass down, pushing through the crowd. “Get your hands off him,” Bucky orders, grabbing the guy by his cheap bomber jacket and throwing him backwards.

“I found him first,” the guy replies, starting towards them. If he were sober, Bucky might’ve had a fight on his hands. It would’ve been almost a relief to hit something, but the guy can barely stand up straight, let alone make more trouble.

Bucky slips Sam’s arm over his shoulders, a twinge of fear setting in at how loose-limbed Sam is, his breathing labored. What had he had to drink? Did the guy slip him something? “Sam? Hey, Sam, you okay? Can you hear me?”

Sam doesn’t respond, his weight sinking into Bucky. “He’s fine,” the guy calls out, reaching for Sam.

“He’s seventeen, dickhead. Touch him again and I’ll call the cops,” he threatens, heading for the door. Pretty much guaranteeing he won’t be allowed to come back here again, but he’s not that happy considering none of the bartenders gave a shit about some guy taking advantage of Sam. And he knew damn well Sam didn’t have a fake ID.

Biting the bullet, he pays for a cab. With how out of it Sam is, he gives the address for his place. He manages to get Sam up the stairs and into the apartment without any trouble. It’s dark, Sarah’s working a late shift and Steve’s asleep. Bucky sits Sam up against his headboard and grabs him a glass of water.

When he returns, Sam is staring around Bucky’s room, his eyes glassy and lost. “Hey, Sam? Look at me.” He drops down in front of him, touching Sam’s knees. Sam starts, sluggishly meeting his eyes. “What did you take? Did that asshole give you anything?”

Sam shakes his head slowly, licking his lips. “Just beer.”

Cursing, Bucky relaxes a bit, but only just. Running a hand through his hair, he stares into Sam’s face, muttering, “You don’t even drink. What were you thinking?” Sam blinks at him silently. Sighing, Bucky stands up, handing Sam the water. “Drink this. All of it.”

He grabs some aspirin from the bathroom and brings the trash can over beside the bed. Sam has finished the water and lies down on his side watching Bucky. When their eyes meet, he says, “I was looking for you.”

The words sink like a lead weight in Bucky’s gut. He moves in closer. “What’d you say?”

“You said you hang out there sometimes and I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“We saw each other yesterday.”

“At lunch. With Steve. You’re always with Steve.” Bucky bites his tongue, forcing himself to hold Sam’s gaze even as the guilt knots in his throat. “And I get that it’s my fault because,” he licks his lips, his voice softening, “because of what I did.”

“Sam,” he tries, hating that pained look in Sam’s eye.

“I’m sorry,” he says, just the way Bucky knew he would.

He rubs at his eyes tiredly before he firmly says, “Move over.” Sam blinks at him as Bucky starts gesturing for him to move. “C’mon. It’s my bed.”

Sam slides backwards, watching as Bucky climbs in next to him. It’s a full-size bed so there’s pretty much no way for them to fit aside from on their sides. Their arms touch, Sam’s warmth seeping into his skin. Every brush of their skin makes Bucky’s nerves sing, his hands nervous at his sides.

Tuning his head, he holds Sam’s gaze as he whispers, “I’m not mad at you.”

Sam’s brow furrows in concern. “You’re not?”

“I don’t think I know how to be, at this point.” Sam’s eyes soften and it makes Bucky’s heart turn over in his chest. “I know you were just sad and confused and I was _there_.”

Eyes guarded, Sam’s quiet for a moment. “I just feel like I’m screwing everything up. With my mom and Steve and Sharon and Nat. You. It’s like I can see myself doing things, stupid things… and I don’t want to be doing them, but I can’t stop.”

It takes a few tries for Bucky to get the words out. “I was like that, too. After I lost my dad. I started doing a lot of stupid shit – just reckless shit. Got into fights, nearly got thrown into Juvie and I did everything I could to push away everyone that cared about me. I think I was just doing whatever I wasn’t allowed to do before.” He touched his hair, “This was part of it. My dad didn’t think boys should have long hair.”

Sam nods, the corner of his mouth quirking as he reached out. He pushes a lock of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. Shivering, Bucky’s face warms as Sam smiles. “I like it.” He licks his lips, the words soft, “Thanks. For getting me out of there.”

Bucky struggles to find his voice. “Anytime.”

Sam nods, his eyes softly closing as his breathing evens out. Bucky watches him for a moment, a strange tightness in his chest.

He turns over and turns out the light.

* * *

Bucky wakes to a knock on his door.

“Hey, Buck? You hungry? Ma’s making breakfast,” Steve calls out.

There’s a warm weight on his chest. Looking down, Bucky finds Sam fast asleep, his head on his chest. Chest tightening, his arm curls around Sam’s waist, reflexively holding him there when the door knob rattles. Cursing, Bucky slides out of bed and quickly pads to the door. It opens a bit as Bucky grips the edge and keeps it from opening all the way.

“Hey, man,” he stutters out, meeting Steve’s wide eyes.

“G’mornin. You look… good,” he says slowly and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“I’ll be out in a second.”

Steve’s eyes narrow as he tries to peek around Bucky. “What’s goin’ on?” He looks back at Bucky with a shake of the head. “Do you have someone in there?” he exclaims.

“Keep your voice down,” he hisses.

“My Ma’s home. What are you thinking?”

“It’s just Sam.”

At that, Steve’s eyes widen almost comically. “What? Sam Wilson? How’d you pull that off? He’s the straightest guy I know.”

‘Yeah, I know,” Bucky mutters, rubbing at his eyes.

“Do you? Because he’s going through a lot right now and—”

“I know,” Bucky cuts in sharply, his stomach twisting. “I’m not taking advantage of him. We didn’t do anything. He just slept over,” he explains, crossing his arms. “He had a rough night and needed a place to crash. Just for a night. I brought him here.”

“Is he okay?”

“He will be.”

Steve relaxes a bit, stepping back. “Good, good. I’ll let my mom know.” He starts down the hall, stopping a few feet away. “Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad he has you,” he says with a smile.

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that.

When he closes the door, he finds Sam sitting up in bed, his eyes clenched shut. Biting down a laugh as he nears, Bucky hands him the bottle of aspirin. “Take this.” He hands him the glass of water on the nightstand. “It’ll help, trust me.”

“I feel like my head is splitting open. Why do people do this?” he rasps, chugging the water.

“It’s fun? At least while you’re doing it.” He sits down on the edge of the bed, watching as Sam closes the lid on the aspirin. He bides his time, wondering how the hell he wound up in this position and not Steve. “So, listen, about last night…”

Sam’s eyes finally open, wary as they meet Bucky’s. “Yeah?”

“You can’t do that again.” His eyes fall to his nervous hands. “You really scared me last night.”

Sam moves forward, reaching out to touch his arm. “I didn’t mean to.” His eyes are soft. “I really was just looking for you. But I couldn’t find you and when that guy offered me a drink, I just took it. He seemed nice.”

“A lot of people seem nice in places like that, but they just want something from you.” He turns towards Sam, his wrist warm where Sam’s hand rests. “They don’t care about you.”

Sam’s brow furrows. “So, why do you go there?”

Bucky’s mouth moves wordlessly for a moment, the honest answer sticking in his throat. He’s no so ignorant as to believe Sam’s naïve about sex or why someone might go to a gay bar from time to time. He doesn’t think Sam will understand if he explains that he’s never really cared that the people he met there didn’t care about him. The idea of explaining meaningless sex to Sam strikes him as rather sad. 

Sam probably thinks the other person has to mean something to you, that you should care about them and really _know_ them. It’s why he knew Sam wouldn’t have willingly gone anywhere with that dick bag Bucky saw him with last night. Sam deserves someone sweet and kind and generous. Someone that gets him and knows enough to know he would never want something quick and dirty at a dive bar. Sam deserves something special.

And Bucky’s not sure how to explain that he doesn’t deserve that for himself.

“It’s just a place that doesn’t look too hard at my ID,” he settles on, his eyes falling to Sam’s hand on his arm. He clears his throat, levelling with Sam. “You have to promise me you won’t go back there.”

“I don’t think I can after last night,” Sam jokes. At Bucky’s stare he sighs, nodding. “I won’t. Promise.”

“Good, now Steve’s Ma is making breakfast and you smell like cigarettes and cheap beer. You should take a shower.” He stands up, heading for the door.

There’s a quiet rustling and then Sam calls out, “Clothes?”

Bucky turns around, face burning as he takes in Sam shirtless and sitting on his bed. His toned stomach tenses, abs tightening as he stretches his arms overhead. Miles and miles of smooth, dark skin that looks buttery smooth and soft to the touch. Flushed, Bucky tugs at his shirt, eyes widening when Sam looks to him expectantly.

“Sorry, what?”

“Do you have something for me to wear?” he asks, standing up.

“Uh, yeah! Yeah,” he says at a reasonable volume, eyes caught on Sam’s hands as they undo his belt. “I’ll just,” he moves over to his drawers. “You can borrow some clothes from me.”

He starts for the door as Sam asks, “And underwear?”

 _Jesus Christ, he’s going to kill me_ , he muses. He reaches up into the top drawer and pulls out a pair of boxers. “Sure, I’ll just leave these here.” He turns around, pointedly keeping his eyes on Sam’s face and not dwelling on the fact that Sam Wilson is standing in his bedroom in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. “You just do… your thing. I’ll be in the kitchen,” he stutters out.

Sam bends over to straighten the bed and Bucky nearly smacks his nose into the doorjamb. Looking up in concern, Sam watches as Bucky covers his nose and he leaves the room at a run.

* * *

“You have a talent, James,” Ms. Cho says, straightening out the pile of sketches on her desk. There’s a dash of blue paint on her wrist that she hasn’t seemed to notice. Or she doesn’t care. She isn’t the type to worry about looking put together. Most days, she has paint in her hair, on her shoes and in dots on her clothes. But she never judges and the kids don’t judge her.

“I dunno,” he replies, zipping up his backpack. “It’s nothing like what Steve does.”

“So?” she asks with a smile. “Everyone’s got their strengths. He does more with pencils and paint. I’m not so sure he could do what you can do with ink. Your style is what makes you unique.” Bucky shifts his weight, his eyes cutting towards the door until she sighs. “Go, go, go. Just think about it, okay?”

Bucky nods, flashing a nervous smile before he left the studio.

Art is his last class of the day. He’d started taking them when he and Steve were in middle school. Partly because he liked taking classes with Steve and because the only other electives open at the time were journalism and band and there was no way Bucky was doing those. He doesn’t mind the classes, even though Steve has moved up to the advanced studio courses and Bucky is still sketching and painting still lifes and the occasional model. It’s simple, he gets to call the shots, and he doesn’t have to think too much.

He’s headed through the back parking lot towards his bike when he spies someone sitting on a nearby bench.

He moves in closer, his boots crunching on the asphalt. “Sam?”

Sam’s head pops up in surprise, eyes wide. “Hey.”

“What’s up?” He checks his watch, “Don’t you have practice today? For track?” _Not that he knows Sam’s schedule or anything_ , he muses.

Sam stares down at his backpack. “Yeah, I do. I got dressed and I just… came out here.”

“Okay.” Bucky moves over to sit next to him. “You feeling okay?”

Sam nods reflexively, still nodding as Bucky stares at him. Then he shakes his head with a laugh, his hands shaking as he releases his backpack. “I have no idea what’s wrong with me,” he says with a tight smile. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“Try me,” he says honestly.

“I was standing in the locker room, I got changed and ready to go, I was just standing there and realized I didn’t want to do it.” His brow furrows as he licks his lips, holding Bucky’s gaze. “I think I’m done.”

“Well, yeah, you’re out here talking to me,” Bucky says gently.

“No, I mean, I’m done with track.” He sits up straighter. “I don’t want to do it. I used to love it but, I think I like running more than I like being on the team. And I just don’t have it in me to do things I don’t want to do right now.”

It comes out like a question and Bucky knows Sam well enough to know what he’s looking for here. “Okay. So, you’re done.”

Sam chews on his lip, nodding slowly. Then, “That’s selfish, isn’t it? I’m being selfish.” His gaze falls to his hands. “All those people are counting on me, I’ve been doing it for the past 3 years and the guys are—”

“Look, I’m not the best person to encourage you to participate in after school activities,” Bucky chimes in, sensing Sam’s about to talk himself out of what might be the only good choice he’s made on his own the past few weeks. Sam looks to him in question. “I was about to head home to eat junk food until dinner and then go the fuck to sleep. Because that’s what normal kids do after school.”

Sam rolls his eyes but some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “I am normal, you jerk,” the word comes out like he’s not used to saying it, which is adorable, Bucky muses.

“You’ll still be Mr. Perfect if you drop down to eight extracurriculars instead of nine,” he says, his face flushing over the name. Only Steve knows he called Sam that. At least, that he used to mean it in a not so nice way.

“Mr. Perfect?” Sam cocks his head to the side, thinking this over. “I don’t know if I like that.” He shrugs, staring out at the parking lot. “I just think everyone’s going to think something’s wrong with me.”

“Well, I don’t. I know I’m a nobody, but I don’t think this means something’s wrong with you. But, if you’re not sure, maybe just ask for a break? That way, if you wake up tomorrow feeling team spirit, you can still go put on your short shorts.”

Sam bites down a smile, a spark in his eye. “They’re not that short.”

“If I dropped a pencil and asked you to pick it up, you’re still crouching, aren’t you? Instead of bending over?” He stands up, letting his hair cover the fact that he’s overly warm thinking about Sam in those shorts. He’d been doing his best to pretend he hadn’t seen Sam in his underwear just last weekend. When he’s on his feet, Sam grinning up at him and that stupid flip in his stomach is worth it to see him smile something genuine.

“Well, I’m wearing those shorts _for you_ , so,” he trails off, a teasing spark in his eye. It would certainly go away if Sam knew how Bucky felt about him. And if he knew those words weren’t going to stop circling his brain anytime soon.

Clearing his throat, Bucky tightens his hand on his backpack strap. “Well, anyway, take my advice and keep your very heterosexual shorts. That way, if you feel different about it later, it’s still an option.”

“Thanks, Buck,” he says softly. “I hope whatever this is goes away.”

“I’ll keep an eye on you,” Bucky offers.

“You’re already doing that,” Sam says, a fondness in his eyes.

It sends a nervous flutter through his stomach and he covers it up with a gruff, “Yeah, so let me do my job.” He holds out his hand. “I’ll take you home.”

Riding with Sam is nothing like riding with Steve.

Steve’s either moved so far past worrying about Bucky’s driving or he just doesn’t give a damn about his own safety. He tends to hold on almost as a suggestion when he rides with Bucky. Sam is the complete opposite.

He slides in nice and tight to Bucky’s back, his arms wrapped around Bucky’s waist, his face buried in Bucky’s back. When Bucky takes tight corners, the grip tightens, the engine rumbling through him as he feels Sam shaking. He worries that it’s out of fear, until he speeds through a changing light and Sam lets out a cheer, laughing out loud. Grinning, Bucky revved the engine and pushed to go faster.

Riding with Sam is _fun_.

When they arrive at Sam’s house, the front door opens. Stiffening, Bucky tenses as Sam climbs off behind him and sets the helmet down. Mrs. Wilson stands in the doorway dressed in a light-yellow dress, an apron tied over it like she stepped out of a painting or a classic sitcom. She takes in the bike with a slight bemused frown before holding up a hand in a wave.

Bucky waves back awkwardly with a forced smile, nerves ratcheting up as she beckons them inside.

“Come on,” Sam says.

Bucky’s still smiling as he mutters, “Sam, I’m gay.”

“She’s aware of that, yes.”

“Is she going to try to convert me?”

“Not before dinner. That’s more of a dessert thing.” Bucky glares at him, earning a smile. Sam reaches up to take Bucky’s helmet off, straightening his hair carefully. Bucky stares at him miserably. “She just wants to meet you. I talk about you a lot.”

He heads up the driveway, leaving Bucky helpless to follow. “You do?”

Mrs. Wilson serves them a homemade lasagna that honestly blows every other lasagna Bucky had ever had out of the water. He eats two servings before Sam even finishes his first and Bucky’s not even ashamed. Mrs. Wilson is just happy he likes it so much.

After, she serves a pie that nearly makes him cry.,

“Oh man, Mrs. Wilson, this is amazing.” He stuffs another forkful in his mouth.

“Steve’s mom does feed him,” Sam explains to his mother, touching Bucky’s shoulder. “In case you were worried.”

“Leave him alone, birdie. It’s a compliment. I’ll get you some milk”

As she ducks out, Bucky flashes Sam a knowing smile. “What?” Sam asks warily.

“Birdie?”

Sam sighs heavily. “It’s a nickname.” At Bucky’s widening grin, he grumbles, “My grandma had a pet bird and I used to talk to it for hours.”

“That’s adorable,” Bucky said cheerily, laughing at Sam’s glare.

“What’s adorable?” Mrs. Wilson asks, setting a glass of milk down next to Bucky’s plate.

“Sam—” Bucky begins as Sam cuts in.

“Nothing, Mama. Nothing.”

Her lips purse in disapproval as she sits down. “So, James, I know Sam’s applied to Stanford. What schools are you interested in?”

Bucky’s mouth falls open for a moment as he straightens up. His eyes fall to his plate. “Oh, I don’t know.”

‘Really?” Sam asks, drawing Sam’s gaze. “It’s November. Most places cut off their applications in December.”

“I know.”

“So, you’ve gotta start gathering your SAT scores and sending transcripts and—”

“I know, Sam,” he says quietly. He peeks at Mrs. Wilson who simply smiles. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I think it’s crazy they expect you kids to have it all figured out right now. It’s a big decision and college is expensive.” She looks to Sam with pride. “Sam’s been planning on Stanford since he was about eight years old. He’s always been so headstrong. Even as a baby.”

“Sounds like him,” Bucky says with a helpless smile that she returns.

“But everyone’s different. I didn’t know what I wanted to do until I was in my thirties.” Bucky leans back in his chair, listening as she continues. “If I’d gone through the motions, I would’ve cost my parents a lot of money and who knows if I would’ve found something I loved. Maybe it’ll take time, but you’ll figure it out. From what I hear, you’re a very kind hearted and generous young man.”

Bucky stares at her. “You heard that?”

“I sure did.” Her smile softens. “Does that surprise you? How do you think people would describe you?”

Bucky sets his fork down, wringing his hands together beneath the table. “Trouble,” he answers honestly.

“Why?”

“I was a pretty rough kid. Got in trouble a lot, nearly got shipped off to juvie. My dad sent me to military school for a summer. I was a handful,” he explains, feeling Sam’s eyes on him.

“That may be so, but I see a sweet, polite boy that cares a lot for my son. I’m grateful to have you here.” She stood up, offering a smile before grabbing her plate and Sam’s and heading into the kitchen.

Bucky swallows, his face warming as Sam clears his throat. Bucky looks to him to find Sam avoiding his eyes. “I swear I haven’t just been gushing about you all the time.”

He’s clearly embarrassed, which means there must be some truth to it. The idea of Sam saying such nice things about him to his mother leaves Bucky is strangely endearing. Flustered, he scratches at his brow and tries to keep his voice even. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell anyone you’re my biggest fan.”

Sam’s head shoots up, his eyes wide before he shakes his head. Standing, he gestures for Bucky to follow. “Come on.”

They go up to Sam’s room. It’s a little messier than it had been before. Bucky doesn’t know if that’s a good sign. Maybe Sam’s traded obsessively cleaning for another bad habit.

Sam stretches out on his back on the bed. Bucky hesitates before following suit. Turning his head, he watches Sam in profile, his long, dark lashes fluttering over his cheeks. In his most honest of hours, he’d allowed himself to think about how strange it is that he’s never tired of looking at Sam’s face. The hours they’ve spent together, in this room and out of it, every time he looks at Sam, it feels like the first time.

“So,” Bucky says. “No conversion?”

Sam snorts, his eyes crinkled in the corners. “No, the baptism usually comes after the pie, but we skipped it tonight.”

Smiling, Bucky turns his head and stares up at the ceiling. There are little glow in the dark stars stuck to it. Like the kids’ bedrooms Bucky only saw on sleepovers at other kids’ houses. The kids whose parents let them make little changes like paint and hang up posters. This kind whose parents didn’t want them to be afraid of the dark. His dad had taken out his night light on his seventh birthday.

“I was baptized, you know?” Bucky offers. “They get us when we’re young.” Sam turns to look at him. “I’m a lapsed Catholic.”

Sam licks his lips, drawing Bucky’s gaze before he forces his eyes back to Sam’s. “Guess I’m in the same boat.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “Really?”

Sam scans his face for a moment before returning to the ceiling. “I believe in a lot of things, but I’ve never felt so far from the church.”

“How do you mean?”

Sam looks at him, doubtful. “You really want to hear me talk about religion?”

“Didn’t think I’d ever say this, but yes.”

Sam chews on his lip for a second. “We’re taught to love our neighbors and respect those different from us, but there are so many people that sit in church every Sunday and spend every other day of the week ignoring what they’re taught. And they teach their children that it’s okay to hate others if they don’t believe the same things or if they don’t turn out the same way.” His brow furrows. “Like what happened to you.”

Bucky’s breath catches.

He hadn’t thought about Marc Geraci in years. About being twelve years old on the eighth grade camping trip and sneaking out to meet him in the woods. It had been a risk – no one warier than Bucky at the time. But Marc had seemed to like him and, if it was a joke, nobody else would ever know. When he got there, Marc was waiting for him. Along with a group of older boys.

Steve hadn’t let him go anywhere alone for a long time after that.

“I don’t believe going to church makes you a good person. Doing good things makes you a good person,” Sam says firmly. “I went to church every year with Marc Geraci. Didn’t do him any good.”

Bucky takes that in. “Steve’s old man was a devout Catholic and he was a monster. But Steve’s mother is a saint. Your mom’s pretty great. And you’re the best person I know.”

Sam’s eyes soften with a gentle smile. He moves in closer, his eyes a warm brown in the lamplight. “You changed the way I think about a lot of things.”

He’s so close and Bucky struggles to focus. “Didn’t mean to.”

“I know, but,” he bites his lip, face shuttering as he averts his gaze for a moment. “You helped confirm what I already knew. I think I might be bisexual.”

The words are hushed, even though Sam’s door is closed and his mother is downstairs. He’s clearly nervous, his breath quickening. Even though this has started to feel like a scene out of one of Bucky’s more elaborate fantasies, he knows this is really happening because of the nervous flutter in his stomach.

“That’s cool,” he says holding Sam’s gaze. “I’m gay,” he adds sheepishly.

Sam stares at him for a second and then he laughs, his eyes crinkling. It’s quite possibly the best sound Bucky’s ever heard and he laughs, watching Sam curl towards him on his side.

When he calms, Bucky says, “I’m glad I could help, I guess.” Sam smiles. “Being the first guy you kissed.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Not exactly. That was Steve actually.” Bucky gapes at him. “It was a stupid game of spin the bottle. It was half a joke but I didn’t hate it.”

Bucky forces a smile, planning to murder Steve later.

Steve’s sketching when Bucky corners him that night.

“Hello to you, too,” Steve replies when Bucky yanks the sketchbook out of his hands. “What?”

“You kissed Sam.”

“What?” Steve asks, leaning back in his chair.

“Freshman year. How do you forget something like that?” he asks, the sharpness of his tone making his face flush with embarrassment.

Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh… yeah, I guess I did. Technically.”

“Technically?”

“It wasn’t a real kiss. It was a game, and anyway, how’d you find out?”

“Sam told me.”

“When?”

Bucky tells him about the strange night in which he had dinner beneath an ornate cross. Honestly, he’s still surprised his flesh didn’t burn. He doesn’t tell Steve everything – it’s not his place to tell him that Sam came out to him.

“If you’re a lapsed Catholic, what am I?” Steve muses. “I haven’t been inside a church since… I don’t know when.”

“You wear a cross.”

“That my Ma gave me. I couldn’t name a single book in the bible.”

Bucky leans against the dresser, lost in thought. “You never had a problem with Sam being religious.”

“Why should I? My Ma goes to church twice a week.”

“But your mom doesn’t care about either of us being… you know?”

Steve flashes a smile. “Into guys?” Bucky nods, his face warming. “Yeah, because she loves us and she doesn’t think that way. Everyone’s different.”

“His mom was pretty nice to me.”

“So’s Sam.” He turns towards Bucky, his voice gentling. “You might have issues with this stuff, man,” At Bucky’s face, he adds, “I get why, but… they’re not all like your dad.”

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's interesting that laws on 18 year olds entering bars vary from state to state. There were places in my college town where you could go as long as you were 18 but they'd mark your hand so no one would serve you alcohol.

Bucky shows up at Sam’s one Saturday night, his stomach in knots.

When Sam comes to the door, he’s wearing bunny slippers. He smiles upon seeing Bucky, greeting him warmly until he realizes Bucky’s stifling laughter. “What?”

“Your shoes are very cute,” Bucky manages as he laughs.

Sam’s eyes fall to his feet before he steps back, hiding them behind the door. “I’m at home,” he says with a frown. “You want to come in?”

“It’s your birthday, idiot.” Sam’s eyes widen. “Tomorrow, anyway. What is it?”

“I forgot,” Sam says, leaning against the door. “I can’t believe I forgot.”

“You have a lot going on.” Bucky pushes his hair behind his ear. “Anyway, I thought it’d be a nice night to go out. To a gay bar. But with me. This time,” he finishes nervously as Sam’s eyes light up with excitement. Bucky forces down the tentative joy expanding in his chest. “If you’re up for it.”

“Yeah, of course!” He cheers, beaming and Bucky has to push past the way it makes his heart beat faster.

“You have anything to wear that isn’t mom approved?”

“I’m not sure,” Sam says with a shrug, opening the door wider. “Come on.”

Bucky digs through Sam’s closet but every pair of jeans is too loose fitting and every shirt is either a starchy button down or bears their school’s logo. Bucky’s about to give up when he finds a black t-shirt Sam wore when he helped do set changes for one of Natasha’s plays.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Sam says, chin in hand where he sits on the bed. “That was freshman year. It’s probably way too tight.” At Bucky’s brow raise, he laughs. “Okay, we can try it.”

“As for the pants,” he trails off with a frown.

“I had black jeans that went with that shirt,” Sam chimes in, climbing up and digging through his drawers. He tosses them on the bed.

Bucky politely turns around while Sam changes, keeping his eyes focused on the trophies lining Sam’s shelves. When he turns around, he considers the outfit. It’s distractingly tight. Not so much that it just looks too small, but the fabric clings to Sam’s toned stomach and thighs pleasantly. It’s still missing something and Bucky shrugs off his leather jacket.

“Here.” Sam stares at the jacket admiringly, looking to Bucky in astonishment. Bucky feels strangely naked without it. “It’ll work.”

Hudson lets them in with minimal questioning. He does tell Bucky to keep an eye on “his boy”, which Bucky hopes Sam didn’t hear.

Sam’s too star struck by the strobe lights and all the people. When he’d gone to Moxie’s to find Bucky that night, it had been a slow night. Not only is Apollo’s much more popular, it’s one of their Devilish theme nights which means Sam and Bucky hardly manage to squeeze through the door.

This place is usually a bit too loud for Bucky’s taste. He’d only come here the first time because he hadn’t known what kind of place he was looking for. He’d spent the night in a corner too intimidating to interact with anyone until one of the lesbians behind the bar took him under her wing and taught him what not to do, how to stay safe. Bette wasn’t stupid and she knew he wasn’t old enough to be there, but she understood why he’d come. He didn’t leave with anyone and he spent most of his time talking to her, which helped more than he’d ever be able to tell her.

She gives him a nod when he manages to cut through the mass of bodies. Last time he’d been here, her hair was bright pink. Tonight, it’s electric blue and gelled into a Mohawk that’s surprisingly intimidating. He heads for her, grabbing Sam’s hand to pull him along.

“Hey, kiddo,” she teases with a wink. When Sam comes into view, she grins. “You brought someone! Is this your boyfriend? Looks like it.”

Bucky’s face flushes. “This is Sam,” he stutters a bit, not entirely sure why he leads with that doesn’t correct her.

Sam holds out his hand and she shakes it with a laugh. “Nice. Good, firm handshake, nice eye contact. Cute,” she says, looking back at Bucky. “You did well, young Padawan.”

“Sam’s not – we’re not – we go to school together.”

Bette nods absently, grabbing a marker and drawing an X on Sam’s hand. Bucky simply stares and she reaches over, snagging his hand to do the same. “You know the drill.”

“You two know each other?” Sam asks.

Bette tosses the marker on the counter. “Kid thought he was slick coming in here all of, what, twelve? Thirteen? Could barely reach the bar.”

“I was sixteen,” he grumbles.

“Whatever. Point is, I figured, if I just tossed him out, he’d find a way to sneak in when I wasn’t here and he could get himself into trouble. So, I taught him how to be safe and made sure everybody knew not to mess with him.” She levels Sam with a look. “I get it, you know? Not like there are a lot of safe places for us to hang out. I’d rather keep an eye on him here than send him out into the wild.”

“You make me sound like a stray dog.”

She pinched his chin playfully. “A cute stray dog.” She offers Sam a wink. “If you’re into that sort of thing.” Sam grins, sitting on one of the bar stools. “So, what brings you two here? Just hanging out?”

“It’s Sam’s birthday.”

Bette’s eyes widen. “It is? You should have told me, you little jerk! Jamie! Bring me the crown!” she calls over her shoulder.

“Oh no,” Bucky starts, pushing back from the counter. Maybe they could still make a run for it.

“Oh, yes! It’s tradition,” Bette says with a cackle as a big, burly man comes around to their spot at the end of the bar. He reaches over and literally picks Sam up and helps him climb over the bar. “Careful, J! It’s his first time here.”

Sam looks to Bucky with wide eyes as Jamie leads him to the far end of the bar. Bucky looks to Bette with a light glare as she pours him a soda. “If anything happens to him—”

“Relax, sugarplum. I’m not going to let anything happen to your little boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” She levels him with a bored stare. “He’s not. Honest.”

“He’s wearing your jacket.”

“He didn’t have anything to wear tonight.” Her brows raise and he rolls his eyes. “For Christ’s sake, he’s a good kid.”

“What’s that mean, exactly?” She rests her elbows on the bar.

“His parents are super religious. He’s a pastor’s son.”

She sits up, lips pursed. “Shit.” Bucky nods, sipping his soda. “I mean, shit, kid What’s he doing here with you?”

“I don’t know.” He sets his glass down, running a hand through his hair. “We’re friends. He’s not weird about me. He’s never been to a place like this before. Well, he’s never had a good experience at a place like this before. I wanted to show him a good time tonight.”

She cocks her head to the side, resting her hands on the counter as she studies him. “You like him.” Bucky simply stares at her. “Tough break.”

“Tell me about it.”

Bette pours herself a drink. A soda, the considerate wench. He really loves her sometimes. “I was raised Irish Catholic. They really hand out some self-hatred to go with your guilt.” She holds up her glass for a toast.

The music swells, something ridiculously loud and danceable. The bass shakes the bar itself and Bucky grimaces, turning around as Jamie comes barreling towards them, Sam sitting atop his shoulders with a bright, pink, fluffy feathered crown on his head. His eyes are bright and wondrous as he laughs, the strobe lights illuminating his skin in shades of electric blue, pink and purple.

His eyes meet Bucky’s, alight with joy and he can’t help but smile back. Jamie bounces Sam into the air as the crowd cheers. Sam laughs, holding on tighter as Jamie spins around a few times. He searches Bucky out on every turn.

When Jamie finally sits Sam down, he manages to steal Bucky for one dance.

“Sam,” he tries, trying to hook his foot around the bar stool. “Sam, Sam, Sam, I don’t dance.”

“This is a dance club. Come on,” he says with a frown. “Please. It’s my birthday.”

“I know. Bringing you here is my gift to you.”

“Just one dance.”

“Go on, kid,” Bette says, wiping down the counter.

Bucky glares at her, sharper when she shrugs in response, joining Sam in staring at him. “Fine. Just one.”

Sam hauls him closer, pulling him through the crowd. Bucky very carefully keeps his arms close to his sides. There are plenty of people wearing next to nothing and grinding against each other. He tries too hard not to think about what kinds of fluids are making the floor stick to his boots.

Sam pulls him in close, moving to the music. The few seconds Bucky takes to tune into the lyrics, he’s sure Jesus wouldn’t approve. Sam stares up at the lights above, a bright smile on his face. “This place is great.”

Bucky watches him move, nodding absently. “Yeah, it is.”

He takes Bucky’s hands in his, soft, warm and safe. There’s still a decent amount of space between them, but it shrinks with every pulse of the bass. They’re slowly being pushed together until Sam’s rocking against him, moving to the beat. Bucky’s playing with fire here. He knows that. Even as he lets his hands fall to Sam’s waist. Sam feels so good in his hands; hot and slick, his eyes dark as he draws Bucky in.

He’s close enough to feel Sam’s heat burning into his skin. His heart beats painfully fast in his chest, double time with the beat of the music. Sam’s arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him in closer.

For a second, one brief, insane moment, Bucky wants to kiss him. He wants to slide his hand to the nape of Sam’s neck and taste him. Wants to ruin that smart, clever mouth and make it his. Hell, he wants everything.

But this is Sam. Honest, genuine, and all-around way too good for him.

So, he forces it down. He doesn’t take more than Sam gives him.

Sam leans in closer, his lips brushing Bucky’s cheek. “Thanks. For bringing me,” he murmurs, his breath sending shivers down Bucky’s spine. 

Bucky’s hands tighten around his hips. “Happy birthday, Sam.”

* * *

Thanksgiving rolls around and then winter break.

Steve spends the first part of December nearly pulling his hair out trying to narrow down what to submit with his application to NYU’s art school. Sam and Sharon are ghosts, rarely seen with all of their extracurriculars and application frenzy. Bucky spends a lot of time at home, sometimes looking after Mrs. Rogers when her health turns with the weather.

They spend a quiet Christmas at home with few presents to share. Bucky tells her every year that he doesn’t need anything and, every year, without fail, she presents something she’d either made or brought with what she managed to save. Bucky hopes she’ll finally let him pitch in with the rent after his birthday. Steve has been trying for years and she always turns him down.

He’s not expecting to see Sam, but they’re preparing for Christmas dinner when the buzzer sounds. Steve goes to the door and Bucky’s got his head in the oven when a voice calls out, “Should I be concerned?”

He nearly burns himself on the edge of the baking dish as he turns around. Sam’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the counter in his winter coat. He takes in Bucky’s appearance and smirks.

“You look cute.” 

Blushing, Bucky looks down at his front and curses. He’d forgotten he’d put on the white and red patterned apron. He rolls his eyes, nodding towards the counter. “If you’re going to make fun, you could at least help.”

Sam follows his gaze and picks up the matching oven mitts. “Noted.” He hands them over, tugging off his coat. “What’s next, Rachel Ray?”

“If I’m any of those meatheads, I’m Martha,” he mutters, earning a laugh.

Sam helps them finish dinner and after, Sarah and Steve conveniently leave them alone in front of the tree. It’s a small apartment so they’re not slick about it. Sam doesn’t seem to notice, studying the pictures of Steve, Sarah and Bucky over the years. He pauses for a good while in front of one of Steve and Bucky as boys. There’s a fondness to the smile on his face that Bucky tells himself is mostly for Steve and the fact that they’re kids in the photo.

When he sees Bucky watching him, he grins. “This is so cute.”

“There’s that word again,” Bucky says, scratching at his brow. When he sees the picture up close, his chest tightens. “My Ma took that picture. First year we brought Stevie with us to the Halloween carnival. Rebecca’s somewhere around there. She was pissed we didn’t let her be a Ninja Turtle, too. But they’re all boys,” he mutters. “She was Ariel.”

“Also a good choice.” He stares down at the picture. “You were adorable.”

“That’s enough of that,” he says, taking the picture from Sam and setting it back on the mantle. Clearing his throat, he moves towards the tree and grabs a package wrapped in newspaper. He practically chucks it at Sam, running a nervous hand through his hair. “That’s for you. It’s nothing special.”

“Way to sell it,” he says with a smile, unwrapping the gift.

It’s a thin frame, something cheap. The real gift is the sketch inside. Embarrassingly enough, he’d found himself with quite a few sketches to choose from but this was the best of them, he thought. Sam’s profile, sketched from a memory of sitting beside him on the picnic table at the carnival. It was the only one where he thought he’d done a great job capturing the curve of Sam’s lashes, the bow of his lips and the light in his eyes. 

The more he looks at it, as he watches  _ Sam  _ look at it, the more he starts to wonder what the hell he’d been thinking? As if there’s a way for Sam to look at it and know how much focus it took to draw that kind of detail into his eyes, the amount of focus he’d given to Sam’s lips and the shape of his jaw. There’s a reason most guys just give gift cards or t-shirts for Christmas. God, Sam’s going to be really weirded out.

He’s already babbling. “If you don’t like it, that’s okay. I just thought—” A weight against his chest cuts him off, knocking the breath out of him. Sam’s arms tighten around his neck, his face warm where it presses against Bucky’s.

“This is amazing. Honest.” He pulls away, staring down at the sketch again. “I didn’t know you could do things like this.”

And then he’s looking at Bucky with that admiring look in his eye that Bucky only ever saw when he actually managed to give advice that didn’t suck or when Sam shared something private and Bucky didn’t shun him for it. That look always hit Bucky like a shot of adrenaline, his heart beating damn near out of his chest. Bucky had never learned what to do with that.

“I’m glad you like it,” he stutters out, wiping his clammy hands on his jeans.

“I love it. Thank you,” he says, his eyes soft. He moves over to his coat and pulls a box out from underneath. He hands it to Bucky, a nervous shake to his hands. The box is actually wrapped as though someone actually knew what they were doing. It’s so very  _ Sam _ .

“What is it?” Bucky asks, pushing his hair behind his ears.

“Just open it.”

Bucky sat back, ripping the paper to shreds. He opens the box and it startles out a laugh. “Yes!” he cheers, pulling out the white, fluffy bunny slippers. “Seriously?” he looks to Sam with a grin.

Sam shakes his head, biting down a smile. “Well, I know how much you love mine, so,” he trails off with a laugh.

“Thanks, man,” Bucky says, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “I love them,” he adds quietly, holding Sam’s gaze.

The lights from the tree illuminate his face, the warmth of his brown eyes rendering Bucky wordless in response. He’s been finding it difficult to look away when they’re together and near impossible to stop thinking about Sam when he’s away. It’s just a stupid crush; he knows that. He also knows that he has less than six months before they graduate and he’ll never see Sam again.

Making it even harder to ignore it. They only get so many summers.

Now, Sam looks to him curiously. Bucky’s breath catches and he stutters out, “I think we have hot chocolate. If you – if you like that sort of thing.”

Sam smiles.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

School starts up again and Bucky’s almost relieved. Mostly because application frenzy had ended and everyone could act like human beings again. Of course, they trade talking about college applications for prom. Now, that’s all anyone will talk about.

One day, Sam sits down across from at lunch with a pie plate. Bucky’s mouth waters. “That better be to share.”

“It’s for you actually,” Sam says, sliding it across. “For your birthday.”

Bucky softens, taking it carefully. “Sam, you didn’t have to.”

“My mom made it and of course I did. And that’s just to start,” he sits up excitedly. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t usually do anything for my birthday,” Bucky admits, pulling the cover off the pie plate. It’s blueberry, his favorite. He grabs a fork. “After my parents… I didn’t want Steve’s mom to make a big fuss. I don’t really celebrate it anymore.”

“Really?” Sam rests his chin in hand as he watches Bucky dig into the pie. “It doesn’t have to be big. If you could do anything you wanted, what would it be?”

Everything his mind supplies is incredibly unhelpful. All he can think about is kissing Sam. And pie. Kissing Sam while eating pie. “I don’t know,” he says, thinking it over. “Watch scary movies, eat pizza and finish my pie.”

Sam blinks at him, a slight furrow in his brow. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Bucky lies, his eyes falling to the pie. He started in the middle, a dick move. He doesn’t think Sam will care, though.

“Okay, I’ll come over after school.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “Yeah?” he asks, brightening. Sam smiles back, picking up a fork.

He starts in the middle.

Sam rides home with him.

He pays for the pizza and sits down as Bucky cues up a Freddy Krueger movie. For all of Sam’s love for Halloween, he’d never seen a horror movie. They sit on the floor in front of the sofa, eating pizza from the box, blankets on their laps. Sam watches most of it through his fingers, which is frustratingly adorable.

Bucky spends most of the film watching Sam.

He can’t help it; Sam’s so responsive, tensing when the music swells, startling at the jump scares and flashing little embarrassed smiles afterwards. Lip caught between his teeth, lashes fluttering, enraptured as the lights play over his skin in the dimly lit room. Bucky’s eyes catch on the light in Sam’s eyes, the joy as he looks to Bucky excitedly.

There’s a vice around his heart, a sudden, sharp tug at something fragile in his chest and he can’t breathe. It’s knotted, it’s selfish and feeding on that look on Sam’s face. His joy, his time, his  _ attention _ . That stupid, stubborn affection steals the last of his sense. It leaves him breathless, the words stuck in his throat and unable to ignore it any longer.

He’s in love with Sam.

Fuck, how long has he been in love with Sam?

His eyes widen, stuck in place as Sam grins at him. “What?” he asks teasingly, searching the smattering of candy between them with a smile. “I get it, it’s super uncool that this stuff freaks me out so much. Make fun of me all you like. It’s your birthday. But I’m gonna get you back tomorrow.”

When he looks up, his grin wanes a bit. Bucky shakes his head, forcing a smile. He swallows past the knot in his throat. “It’s nothing. I’m just… tired,” he rasps, returning to the television.

His hands twist in the blanket as he returns to the film, seeing none of it.

* * *

If Bucky had thought avoiding talking about prom meant avoiding the chaos, he’d been wrong.

The week before, Sam and Sharon ambush Steve and Bucky at their apartment.

“Guys, c’mon,” Steve tries as they rush the door. “We’re not going.”

“And we’re not giving you a say,” Sharon says, hands on her hips. “Sam and I did not work tirelessly planning this thing for you two to skip it.”

“Look, I’m sure it’ll look great, but we never planned on going,” Steve explains.

“Yeah. Sorry, Sam,” Bucky says, earning a frown. Looking up at Sam, he spots the tell-tale signs of that familiar pout he could never say no to. “Don’t do that. Come on, Sam,” he warns.

“We don’t have the money, okay?” Steve says finally, drawing Sam and Sharon’s attention. “Thor sort of already asked me.” His face flushed at everyone’s matching stares. “My Ma already works so hard just to make ends meet and I wasn’t going to ask her for the money for a tux and a limo or whatever just for one night. Sorry, guys.”

“We could help,” Sharon offers as Sam moves in closer with a thoughtful look.

“I have an idea.” They look to him. “Thrift shop. There’s some pretty cool stuff there and it won’t look like any of the boring suits everyone else will be wearing. We can alter it ourselves. If we can find something decent, will you come?”

Steve checks with Bucky, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Bucky figures he’s done way more embarrassing shit for Steve before. What could it hurt?

“If you can find something that doesn’t make me look like I stepped out of the 1940s, sure,” Steve says, laughing as Sharon grabs his hands and hauls him to his feet.

Sam does the same to Bucky, flashing a grin. Bucky straightens his jacket, ignoring the way his skin warms beneath Sam’s hands.

Sam pokes his head in through the dressing room curtain. Bucky startles a bit, shaking his head as Sam comes in with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, one more option.” He hangs a powder blue suit on the rack. When he turns, his eyes widen. Whistling, he moves in closer. “Hey, now that actually looks pretty good.”

It’s a white suit jacket with black lapels. The black pants are form fitting, just a little too long but it looks a hell of a lot better than Bucky expected it too.

“You sure?” Bucky asks, peeking at Sam briefly returning to the mirror. “I don’t look like an idiot?”

Sam’s quiet and Bucky looks over in question, his words dying out. Sam’s looking at him, alright. Scanning him slowly from head to toe, a curious look on his face. If Bucky didn’t know any better, he might say Sam is checking him out. But he does know better.

Sam steps forward, covering Bucky’s hand where it rests on the lapel of his jacket. “Stop twisting it like that,” he chides quietly, focused solidly on Bucky’s chest and nowhere else.  
  
Bucky bites down a smile, amused. “Sam?” Sam’s eyes flicker upwards before returning to his chest, his lip caught between his teeth. “You’re kinda leaving me hanging here,” he says with an uneasy laugh.

Sam steps back, his hands spreading out on Bucky’s chest. “You look great.”

“Really?”

Finally, Sam meets his eyes. “Really,” he confirms, his eyes gleaming in the light.

Bucky’s mouth moves wordlessly, his face warming. “Uh, yeah, well, I guess this one isn’t completely terrible.”

“So, you’re coming?” Sam asks with a grin.

“I didn’t say that,” Bucky says, touching the lapel again before Sam playfully slaps his hand away. “I don’t dance, Sam. It’s not my thing.”

“Yeah, and neither were colors, people, parties, loud music…  _ me _ ,” he finishes, missing the way Bucky’s face twists. “It’s just one night and it’s going to be fun. I promise.”

Bucky’s eyes fall to Sam’s hands. “So, I’m sure your date’s probably got their stuff all picked out.”

Sam hums, nodding as he flattens Bucky’s lapel again. “Oh, sure. I’ve had my suit for a few weeks now.” He looks up with raised brows. “I’m going stag.”

“Oh.” He finds it hard to concentrate with Sam’s hands smoothing over his chest like that. “That’s surprising.”

“Is it?” Sam asks honestly. “I haven’t exactly been a catch this year. I barely talked to anyone and being around me certainly wasn’t a good time.”

“You lost your father. It’s understandable that you weren’t Mr. Perfect.” And honestly, it still stings that Sam’s so-called friends had been absent since the funeral.

“There’s that name again.”

“You know what I mean,” Bucky says, catching Sam’s hands before they fall away. “Anyone who can’t see how great you are doesn’t deserve to take you.”

Eyes widening, Sam cocks his head to the side. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Bucky releases his hands reluctantly, stepping back before he did something stupid like kiss Sam, or worse, tell him how he feels. “Well, since you’re going alone and I’m going alone… do you wanna go alone… together?” he finishes sheepishly, trying a smile when Bucky simply stares at him.

“Alone together?” He bites down a laugh but it escapes anyway. “How does that even work?”

“You know what I mean,” Sam says with an eyeroll.

“That sounds like you want us to stand six feet apart the whole night. ‘Alone together’? That’s your pitch?”

“I don’t have to sell myself. And besides, I’m adorable,” he counters with a laugh.

“Yeah, you are,” he remarks quietly. Sam melts, his eyes softening. “Fine,” Bucky says with a sigh, shaking his head at Sam’s grin. “But no complaining about the bike.”

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

Bucky’s already knocked on Sam’s door before he starts to rethink the plastic box in his hand. 

“Shit,” he mutters, trying to figure out how to hide the thing, considers chucking it in the shrubs when he hears the lock turn. “Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, nearly dropping the damn thing as the door opens.

“Hey! You’re on time!” Sam cheers, his eyes widening as Bucky accidentally spikes the plastic box into Sam’s chest.

Sam catches it smoothly, brows raised as he studies it. “You… got me a corsage?” he asks, his tone rather bland.

Wincing, Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “It was a joke?”

It comes out like a question and he’s still not sure if Sam’s silence means he’s trying to figure out a polite way to tell him to go fuck himself. Because he’s Sam and he’d be polite. Sam’s shoulders shake a little and Bucky tenses. Then Sam’s head pops up and he’s biting his lip, trying not to laugh. Bucky lunges for the box and Sam smoothly steps backwards, clutching it to his chest.

“No, no, it’s mine. I love it.” He opens the box, studying the white flower closely. He tries to slide it on his wrist one handed and nearly crushes it.

“Here, just,” he reaches out, freezing as Sam tenses, guarding the flower. Sighing, he pushes a lock of hair behind his ear as he reaches for it carefully. “Let me.” Sam complies, letting Bucky take the flower and slide the wristlet over Sam’s wrist. “It’s not like there are guidelines on this sort of thing.”

“I’m sure you get these for all the guys,” Sam muses, studying the wristlet in the light.

“I don’t,” Bucky admits quietly. He didn’t exactly do dates, but he doesn’t think he would put this much effort in for any of the guys he’s been with. Sam grins, his eyes warm and fond. It sparks that familiar nervous flutter in Bucky’s stomach that he pointedly ignores. “Okay, let’s get going.”

“You don’t think we’re getting out of here that easily, right?”

“What d’you mean?” he asks as he hears heels click through the house. Mrs. Wilson appears from the kitchen, a camera in hand. “Sam,” Bucky begins as Sam touches his arm.

“If you just smile and let her take two, we can get out of here without taking forty. Follow my lead,” he says, stepping in front of Bucky. “You weren’t there when I made the track team. I almost missed the race because she took so many pictures.”

“It’s the shorts,” Bucky starts and the elbow he takes to the stomach is so worth it.

“So, we’re already running a bit late,” Sam tries.

Mrs. Wilson gestures for him to move further into the light. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“Mama,” Sam whines, offering Bucky an apologetic look.

It’s now that Bucky puts two things into perspective. One, Sam’s leaving in a few months. There’s no way he didn’t get into Stanford and he’ll be half way across the country this time next year. Two, this picture might very well be the only evidence of the fact that Sam Wilson, Mr. Perfect, had asked him to prom.

“Birdie, either you smile or you pout, but I’m getting my picture either way.”

“We’re going to be late—”

Bucky touches his arm, drawing his attention. “It’s okay, Sam. Really. I – I want to,” he chimes in. Sam’s eyes widen for a second before he finally nods. Bucky hopes Mrs. Wilson got a picture of his face because the pout is kind of adorable. “Now,” Bucky starts, moving behind Sam. “I think  _ this  _ is how it goes?” He locks his arms around Sam, making Mrs. Wilson smile at the signature prom pose.

“Traitor,” Sam replies.

“Smile, Sam,” he says, grinning.

The flash goes off as Mrs. Wilson laughs.

The bike draws a lot of attention when Sam and Bucky arrive at the venue.

The Prom Committee had found a cabin on a lake that had been priced decently considering it was still rather chilly this time of year. As they climb off the bike, more people stare when the helmets come off. Bucky’s stomach twists as he scans the crowd; he still remembers the kids that had laughed at him after they vandalized his locker freshman year. He doesn’t think Sam’s reputation will protect him from that kind of response. Showing up with Bucky’ll just drag Sam down to the mud with him.

He stops Sam with a hand on his stomach. “Maybe we should go in separately,” he suggests.

Sam blinks at him. “What are you talking about? I know I phrased it in a dumb way, but—”

“Sam, people are staring.”

Sam frowns at him, peeking over Bucky’s shoulder and scanning the crowd. When he returns to Bucky, his eyes are firm. “So?”

Bucky stares at him. “So?”

“So what? Let them stare. I look amazing tonight and so do you.” He straightens, holding out his arm. “Now, come on. I’m sure Steve and Sharon are looking for us.”

He’s bobbing his head to the music, a song Bucky knows for a fact he’s never heard. Bucky forces down a smile, looping his arm through Sam’s. “Doubtful. I don’t think Sharon remembers we exist when Nat’s around.”

“You’re probably right.”

The music blaring from the speakers isn’t something Bucky recognizes and the dancing is somehow more pornographic than anything he’s ever seen at Apollo’s. He keeps close to Sam’s side as they move through the crowd and tries really hard not to let he stares get to him. Sam doesn’t seem to care that just being seen with Bucky like this cements his fate for the rest of the school year. He might as well have outed himself.

Steve’s nowhere to be found and Sharon’s in the corner. They talk to her for a second before a couple from the debate team steal her away. Bucky looks up from his shoes to find Sam smiling at him.

“What?”

“You wanna dance?” Sam asks.

“What – here?”

“No, in the moonlight,” Sam says with an eyeroll. “Yes, here.”

He reaches for Bucky’s hand, smile falling a fraction as Bucky steps back. “Sam, you know it’s different here.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Bucky shakes his head in disbelief. “I’ve spent the past four years with these people. I know how mean they can be.” Sam nods, chewing on his lip. “I can take it; I don’t care. But, I don’t want that for you.”

Sam’s brow furrows as he steps forward, reaching out to take Bucky’s hand. He pulls gently and Bucky reluctantly let’s Sam pull his arm around his waist. Sam drapes his arms over Bucky’s shoulders, moving in closer. Swallowing nervously, Bucky allows himself to be pulled in, his eyes catch on the people around them. A few turn their heads, watching as Sam moves to the music.

“I mean, I could’ve picked a slower song for my moment,” Sam mutters. “I’ll just look like a black guy without rhythm, but my point still stands.”

A few football players were staring at them now, as well as a few chaperones. “And more people are staring,” he mutters. Sam tenses, a question in his eyes. Bucky shakes his head, tightening his hold.

“You know, it’s interesting,” Sam says with a soft laugh. “A lot of these people avoided me for most of the year, when I wasn’t fun to be around. But one dance with you and suddenly I’m visible again,” he says with a humorless grin.

Bucky holds him closer. “That fucking sucks.”

Sam laughs, more genuine. “It does. It does suck.”

Bucky moves to the music, cocking his head to the side as he studies Sam. “It  _ fucking _ sucks.”

Chewing on his lip, Sam bites down a smile. “It sucks.”

“It’s one word, Sam. For me?” Sam rolls his eyes, laughing as Bucky playfully rocks him a bit out of sync with the music. “Just once. No one can hear you.”

With a sigh, Sam leans in closer, wrapping Bucky tightly in his arms as he rests his cheek on his shoulder. His voice comes through a bit raspy, the warmth of his breath on his neck making his stomach tighten in anticipation. “It fucking sucks. You happy?”

Bucky forces a laugh, ignoring the way his face flushes. “Very.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Bucky replies, closing his eyes.

The song changes.

After a few songs, Sam pulls Bucky outside for a walk.

Bucky’s boots sound heavily on the bridge. Sam laughs out loud, his eyes alight in the twinkling lights strung along the pier. “What?” Bucky asks, more amused than anything else.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice you wore combat boots with your suit.”

Bucky shrugs, grinning with pride. “You can get me out of my jeans, but never my boots.” Seconds later, he backtracks, “I mean, figuratively.”

“Sure, sure,” Sam says, laughing louder.

“You know what I mean.”

“Of course,” Sam says, holding out his hands as they reach a quiet spot away from the entrance. Staring out at the lake, Sam adds, “You’re not that kind of guy.”

Bucky rests his elbows on the rail, watching the water shift. “I am. Or, I used to be.” He clears his throat. “For a while, anyway.”

“But not anymore?”

He looks over to find Sam waiting. There doesn’t appear to be any judgment there, which makes Bucky honest. “Not anymore.” And because tonight had been strange enough, “Have you ever… you know?” Sam chews on his lip, shaking his head once. Bucky can’t explain the way Sam’s response makes him feel strangely jealous, of all things. “That’s good.”

“It is?”

“It’ll probably mean something for you.” His gaze falls to his hands, a lock of hair shielding his face.

“It didn’t for you?”

Turning, he leans his back against the rail. It’s so much harder having this conversation and looking Sam in the eye. “Not really, no,” he replies with a shrug. “From what I remember, the guy was nice. Some prep school kid. Neither of us knew what we were doing. It was too fast and—” Sam’s face twists and he cuts himself off. “I don’t remember his name. Could’ve been worse.”

“Could’ve been better,” Sam says. “So, it didn’t mean anything?”

“Sex doesn’t always have to mean something for me.”

“But kissing does,” Sam says slowly. “That matters to you.”

“Sam,” he starts, sighing heavily. “I just didn’t want you to make a mistake. You were grieving and you were upset and you weren’t thinking straight.”

Brown eyes soften and harden in seconds. “You think you were a mistake.” He turns towards him. ‘You’re not a mistake,” he says firmly.

“You said it yourself, you were doing stupid things at the time.”

Sam reaches out, taking his hand. “I was upset, yes, but you were the only person at the time that didn’t look at me like I was helpless. You spent hours with me just to make sure I was okay and that meant a lot to me. You didn’t even  _ like _ me,” Sam says with a laugh, his eyes bright. “I wanted to kiss you.”

Bucky’s breath catches, scanning Sam’s face. “You did?”

Sam nods, offering a weak smile. “I didn’t understand it at the time, but I wanted to.” 

He returns to the lake and Bucky follows suit, gripping the railing. Their fingers are inches apart. “Yeah, well, I’m a catch, so,” he trails off, earning a laugh.

“No arguments here,” Sam says softly. Bucky looks to him briefly, catching his smile before he hides it away. Sam lets out a slow breath. “Sharon got into Berkley. I knew she would. She’s crazy smart. She’s going to sail right through and head off to Quantico.”

Bucky nods, staring out at the water, feeling the chill of the night air. “Steve got into art school, the little nerd,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking. “He’ll be in the dorms, but he’ll probably come home every weekend. He’s a Momma’s boy.”

“She’ll be happy.”

Bucky keeps his voice light. “And you’ll be in California.” Sam’s breath catches. Bucky takes his time mustering the strength to turn and look Sam in the eye. His eyes are bright and clear, his brow furrowed in concern. Strangely, it gives Bucky the courage to rip the band aid off. “I know you got into Stanford, Sam. I’m happy for you.”

“You are?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sam shifts his weight, chewing on his lip. “I don’t know. Maybe I just feel weird about it.” He lowers his head, gripping the railing as he faces the water. “You’ve become such a big part of my life and I’m going to be across the country in a few weeks.”

The words sink like an anchor in Bucky’s stomach. “What?” he rasps. “A few weeks?”

“Yeah, my summer program starts two weeks after graduation.”

Wordless, Bucky stares at Sam’s profile, his hands tightening on the railing. He thought he’d have two more months with Sam. Two months of summer, just the two of them, shooting the shit. Lying on Sam’s bed talking about everything and nothing, eating way too much pie and watching scary movies. He’d even made a list, all the ones he’d wanted to show Sam when they finally had time. When Sam finally slowed down.

He’d thought he’d have two whole months of Sam before he left him behind.

“I didn’t know,” he says mutedly, returning to the lake. It’s still, crystal clear in the moonlight. “I guess this is goodbye.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam tries.

Bucky tries for a smile. He reaches out, covering Sam’s hand.

* * *

Even with the dip in his grades, Sam finishes class valedictorian.

No one cheers louder than Bucky. Mrs. Wilson’s got him on video standing up when Sam walks the stage. He gives a speech about growing up, about hard work, but his overarching message is about acceptance. Everyone in the auditorium knew about his father, but none of them really knew how hard it had been to pick himself up and keep going. They hadn’t been there with Sam on his bedroom floor, in the garage with his father’s things, walking around the neighborhood aimlessly for hours. Sam thanks his mother, he thanks the friends that stuck by him, he thanks Bucky specifically.

The rest of his speech is a bit of a blur for Bucky after that.

* * *

Bucky tries to make the best of the time he has left with Sam.

It’s hard, with Sam running around getting everything he’ll need for California and getting packed up. He’s spread thin between friends and family – everyone wants a piece of him. More than once, Bucky considers calling it quits. Of course, everyone’s trying to get in their time with Sam. In a few weeks, Sharon will be the only person on the same coast as him. It’s presumptuous and selfish of Bucky to think Sam owes him anything – least of all his time.

After Sam reschedules a third time, Bucky gives up trying. Whatever he had to say to make peace with Sam leaving, he should’ve said it at prom that night. When they were standing lakeside. When he dropped Sam off at home. In the silence he let linger between them because he’d been so focused on Sam leaving that he didn’t have it in him to enjoy the time he’d had alone with him that night.

He’d always known Sam was meant for so much more. Even when he’d been that annoying kid that always had something oh so insightful and creative to say in class, Bucky had known Sam would be going places. Sure to go to some fancy school where he’d blow everyone else out of the water. Bucky had always known that – but it had been different knowing it then, when he didn’t know Sam.

When it had mattered less that Bucky would probably never see him again. 

He’s shuffling around his bedroom one Saturday morning, a half-eaten bowl of cereal in hand when the buzzer sounds. Grumbling, he lets the spoon fall out of his mouth as he calls out, “Steve! Get the door! It’s probably your boyfriend.”

Steve slides by his cracked doorway and nearly slams into the wall. He pokes his flushed face in through, hissing, “Keep your voice down! My Ma doesn’t know.”

Frowning, Bucky simply stares at him. “She knows you like guys.”

“But she doesn’t know about  _ this guy _ ,” Steve adds. “You know how she is. She wants to be super involved and she’ll ask a bunch of questions and then she’ll want to meet him and… we’re not there yet,” Steve says, averting his gaze.

Bucky slumps down on the end of his bed, poking at his cereal. “Take it from me, it’s good that she cares. It’s good that she’s supportive. I mean, hell, Stevie,” he looks up at Steve, “she’s still here.”

Steve’s eyes soften, his mouth moving wordlessly for a moment. “Buck,” he starts when the buzzer sounds again. “Shit, I’ll be back.”

Bucky nods, shoveling more cereal in his mouth. He sets the bowl aside and lies back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s weird to think about how empty his days feel now. No school, no summer reading, no summer job to pay for summer reading. Just hours and hours of free time. For the time being anyway.

Is this the rest of his life?

“Yeah, he looks super busy,” a voice says in the hall.

Bucky stiffens, sitting up as the door to his room opens. Sam appears, dressed in a pair of board shorts and a white t-shirt. He rests his hands on his hips, his head cocked to the side.

“You up for a trip or are you having a moment?”

Bucky licks his lips, aware of the fact that there’s crumbs in the corner of his mouth, his hair is greasy and falling out of its tie and he’s pretty sure there’s a stain on his t-shirt. He looks like shit.

“Where we goin’?” he asks, climbing out of bed.

“It’s a surprise,” Sam says with a grin, crossing his arms. “You’re driving though.”

“What are you going to do? Blindfold me? That’ll go great.” He moves around his room, glancing at Sam’s shorts and pulling out a pair of board shorts and a tank top. “Or you could drive,” he suggests. The idea of Sam driving his bike should scare him. He’d never even let Steve touch the thing.

Sam’s eyes widen. “No way. That thing is a death trap.”

Bucky yanks his shirt overhead, pulling on the tank top as he replies, “You don’t mind it when I’m driving.” Sam doesn’t say anything and he looks back to find Sam’s eyes cutting away to the floor. Frowning, “Sam?”

“That’s because I trust you driving.”

It’s strangely comforting to hear and he turns back around. “Yeah, ‘cause I know what I’m doing.

He reaches for the drawstring on his pants and Sam clears his throat. “I’ll just be right outside.”

Bucky watches him slide through the cracked door rather amusedly.

It’s a long ride.

Sam doesn’t blindfold him, though truth be told, as crazy as it sounds, if there’s anyone he’d trust to guide him blindfolded, it’s Sam. They get about a third of the way there when realization hits and Bucky smiles. He revs the engine, picking up speed as Sam grips him tighter around the waist and lets out a cheer.

He’s so warm at Bucky’s back, his thighs a line of heat bracketing him in. They’d hit the brief respite of the summer, before it got hellishly hot and impossible to be outside. There’s a kind breeze and he’s got Sam holding him tight, his face buried in his back when he takes a curve and really leans into it.

He wishes he could keep this going forever.

He wants to keep _ Sam _ with him forever.

But they reach the turn off point and he lets Sam steer him left with a tug on his arm. He pulls off, parking in the small lot in front of the field.

This place looks different without the twinkling lights and drunken teenagers. The lake is calm and quiet, clear in the warm sun above. Peeking over his shoulder, he catches Sam pulling out a small picnic basket and laying out a blanket in the grass.

Looking out at the empty space, a thought occurs. “So, you didn’t want to ask Sharon or Nat or Steve?”

Sam pauses in laying out the food, eyes widening. “Oh, uh,” he offers a sheepish smile, “guess I could have? I just wanted to hang out with you today. Just you.”

“Oh.” Bucky shifts nervously for a moment, ignoring the sudden flare of joy. He moves in closer, sitting down on the blanket next to Sam. He searches for something to say. “So, what’s all this?”

Sam grins, relaxing as he explains the spread. “I have sandwiches, chips, potato salad, sodas. Best of all,” he rummages around in the basket and pulls out a small container. “I have—”

“Pie!” Bucky holds the container close to his chest with a grin. “I love you.”

Sam’s eyes go wide and Bucky prays it had come out more jokingly than the somewhat earnest and painfully honest way it had sounded in his head. “You just love that I bring you pie.”

“You caught me,” he says, stretching out on his side. He calms watching Sam set out the rest of the food. “So… how’s it going?”

Sam snorts, glancing to him quickly before closing the basket and setting it aside. He lies down next to him, turning his head to look at him head on. “You really wanna know?”

“Of course, I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’ve been ghost for a while.”

“I couldn’t fit into your busy schedule,” he mutters. At Sam’s face, he sighs. “Sorry. It’s just... everyone’s going places and I’m staying right here.”

Sam chews on his lip, no doubt trying to sugar coat his next words. “You never seemed that interested in school.”

“Why would I? I spent twelve years of my life being told I was an idiot. Not counting the summer, I spent in military school.” Sam’s eyes widen and he curses internally. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Military school?” Sam’s brow furrows in concern.

“My dad sent me before freshman year. He hoped it would straighten me out. Obviously didn’t work.”

“That’s awful.”

Bucky’s insides twist. A part of him likes that Sam cares so much, but a part of him doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want Sam to know that part of him. Or that part of his life. He’d been damn lucky he’d had Steve to pull him out of it.

“It was, but I got past it. It’s just… school’s always been associated with feeling like I could never be good enough. I think you know that,” he says, licking his lips.

Sam nods, his eyes narrowing. “I hated Russo so much.”

“You? You hated someone?”

“He was a bully. I love school, I love English Lit, but that guy ruined it for a lot of people. Reading is supposed to be fun. I love that every single person in the world can take away something different from the same work. That’s amazing!” His eyes lit up for a second before he sighs. “I don’t like that some people think everyone’s supposed to ‘get’ the same thing. That’s just stupid.”

“Or I was just stupid,” he mutters, breath catching when Sam covers his hand.

His eyes are firm. “You’re not stupid.” The corner of his mouth turns up, “I could describe you in about a million words, but stupid isn’t one of them.”

Sunlight illuminates his eyes in lines of gold, gleaming with a fondness that makes it damn near impossible for Bucky to give into the nervous urge to look away. Brush the words off as a friendly compliment or a kindness, anything but what he wants it to be. What he wants it to mean.

Instead, he moves in closer, his heart pounding in his chest. The gentle breeze blows a lock of his hair into his eyes. Sam’s eyes soften as he reaches out, carefully pushing it behind Bucky’s ear. His fingers brush Bucky’s cheek, his thumb tracing the shell of his ear as his lip catches between his teeth.

He leans in, lashes fluttering as his gaze falls to Bucky’s lips and then to his eyes in question. Bucky’s not sure what he finds there, he’s too fucking scared to move. He’s still half convinced this isn’t really happening because why would Sam ever want to kiss him?

Sam’s eyes flutter closed as he leans in.

Their lips touch in a kiss so soft, Bucky’s still not sure he isn’t imagining it. Drawn in, he presses into it, insides melting as Sam’s thumb traces over his cheek, his warmth sinking into Bucky’s skin. With a soft hum, he takes Sam’s bottom lip between his lips, sliding across it gently with his tongue. Shivering, Sam lets out a low moan, opening for him. It’s easy enough to slide his tongue inside, shifting his weight as he leans over Sam on the blanket.

If Sam’s new at this, Bucky can’t really tell. He follows Bucky’s lead, taking what he’s given and giving it right back. A clever twist of his tongue draws a groan Bucky’s too mindless to stifle. Sam does it again, laughing into their kiss as Bucky pulls away, his hand on Sam’s chin.

Sam’s eyes open slowly, a teasing fondness in them that makes Bucky’s breath catch, that familiar pull in his chest leaving him wordless. They’ll come a time when Sam stops looking at him like this. When he goes off to Stanford and finds a bunch of new fancy, genius friends. When Bucky has a bad day and starts a stupid fight. When Sam realizes there’s not much else Bucky can give him.

The day will come when he’ll lose this, lose  _ Sam _ ; he’d better enjoy it while it lasts. They only get so many summers.

Sam stretches out, his chest pressing tight to Bucky’s for a brief moment as he beams. “So, what now?”

They spend the day in and out of the water.

Bucky takes a running leap at the lake, making sure to drench Sam in a cannonball. He bitches about it from shore but there’s nothing he can do about it outside of the water. He carefully climbs inside, shivering as he moves closer to Bucky. Teeth chattering, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“You didn’t tell me it’s ice cold!” he whines.

Bucky quickly takes him into his arms, the warmth of sunlight on their skin. “I’m sorry, princess. I’ll do better next time,” he replies with a grin.

“See if I take you swimming with me again,” Sam replies. He studies Bucky for a moment, a strange look in his eye.

“What?” Bucky starts to ask as Sam rises up in his grip and slides his hands to Bucky’s shoulders.

He playfully shoves him down into the water.

When he comes up, Sam’s laughing hysterically and it’s  _ on _ !

Sam slides out of his grasp quite a few times, rebuffing any and all attempts to drag him under. When Bucky finally gets a handle on his arm, Sam grips his shorts and they go under together. The water is nice and cool, crisp and clear and Bucky finds that he doesn’t mind it so much.

When they come up, he pulls Sam’s legs around his waist, carrying him over to the bank. Sam grins as him, cheery and breathless. Bucky draws him into a kiss, desiring to taste the joy on his lips.

He tastes of sunlight.

Sam’s arms tighten around his waist briefly when he pulls into the driveway.

Bucky holds him there, his hand on Sam’s arm until he pulls away, climbing off. Near sundown, the street is quiet, the street lights still dark. Sam sets the spare helmet down, taking his basket from the small storage compartment.

Bucky walks him to the front door, his hands in his pockets. It’s fairly warm out but he feels strangely cold. Everything feels different without Sam’s arms around him, his musical laugh in his ear.

Sam sets the basket down on the porch as he digs in his pocket for his keys. “So, uh, I guess this is it. For a while anyway,” Sam says, his head down.

“Guess so,” Bucky says. His lips still tingle, his fingers brushing over them absently as Sam looks at him.

His brow furrows, stilling for a moment. “You won’t just disappear, right?”

Bucky shifts his weight a bit, eyes falling to his boots. “’Course not.”

“I mean it,” Sam says, touching his arm and drawing his gaze. His eyes are firm. “I want to hear from you.”

“You’ll be busy,” Bucky tries, feeling cold everywhere but where Sam’s touching him. “Gotta make all those rich kids look bad. You won’t have time to check in on some punk in Brooklyn.”

Sam chews on his lip, his eyes bright and amused as he studies him, leaning back against the closed door. “There’s this kid in my class and he is  _ so _ cool. Doesn’t give a damn what anybody thinks, never speaks up in class but he always knows the answers. He drives this really cool motorcycle, wears this really cool leather jacket and these really cool combat boots. And I was  _ so _ nervous to talk to him because I’m the most boring person on the planet.”

“Sam,” he starts, his heart beating fast.

“But I tried. Believe me, I tried. And he shut me down,” Sam says with a soft laugh, his eyes wet. “So, when I learned that his favorite holiday was Halloween, just like me, I asked his best friend to introduce us. He invited me to a carnival.”

Bucky’s eyes warm, his throat tight. Sam studies the keys in his hand, a fond smile on his face. “I was so scared to talk to you,” he admits, peeking at Bucky through his lashes. “And the craziest part was that I didn’t even understand why. I just really wanted you to like me.”

Moving in closer, Bucky takes his hand. Sam looks to him, his eyes guarded. Cradling Sam’s hand against his chest, he leans in, pressing their lips together. Sam comes easily, melting into him, the taste of salt on his tongue. Sam’s back presses into the door, taking Bucky’s weight as Bucky deepens the kiss. With every slide of their lips, it’s harder to breathe, the vice tightening around his heart.

He pulls away, pressing their heads together, eyes burning. 

Sam pulls Bucky closer. “If I don’t hear from you, I’ll track you down. You know me; I’m stubborn that way.”

Bucky swallows past the knot in his throat, nodding once.

Sam yanks him into a hug, his face soft against Bucky’s cheek. Bucky wraps his arms around his waist, holding him there. Sam smells of grass and blueberry pie, his arms warm around Bucky’s shoulders. Breath hitching, Bucky’s fingers twist in his shirt as he presses his lips to Sam’s temple. Holds him there, a tear rolling down his cheek. He’ll let go when Sam lets go.

They can’t stay like this forever.

Sam doesn’t pull away. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sam's father dies in this story, but his mother does not. 
> 
> As for the "attempted sexual assault warning" there's an attempt to take a drunk person home from a bar in chapter 3. This person is not successful. 
> 
> As for the ending, Sam goes off to Stanford and Bucky stays in New York. 
> 
> Perhaps someday I'll work on a sequel. Until then, I hope you enjoyed the story!


End file.
